&x>*^£W  K 


GERMANY 


BY  MADAME 

THE  BARONESS  DE  I STAEL-HOLSTEIN 


NOTES  AND  APPENDICES 

BT 

0.  W.  WIGHT,  A.  M. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 
VOL.  I. 


N&W  YORK 
OTRD  AND  HOUGHTON,  401  BROADWAT 

BOSTON:  WILLIAM  VEAZIE 


MDCCCLXIV 


6  EDITOR'S  PEEFAOE. 

object  has  been  to  give  abundant  and  reliable  information  in 
regard  to  the  period  since  Madame  de  Stael  wrote. 

Important  Appendices  have  been  added,  which  complete 
the  survey  of  German  Literature,  Philosophy,  and  Theology. 

We  had  intended  to  say  something  here  in  regard  to  the 
intellectual  importance  of  Germany,  but  we  find  what  we  wished 
to  say  so  much  better  expressed  by  Mr.  Carlyle, — and  who  has 
a  better  title  than  he  to  speak  of  intellectual  Germany  ? — that 
we  gladly  adopt  his  language  : 

"  There  is  the  spectacle  of  a  great  people,  closely  related  to 
us  in  blood,  language,  character,  advancing  through  fifteen  cen- 
turies of  culture,  with  the  eras  and  changes  that  have  distin- 
guished the  like  career  in  other  nations.  Nay,  perhaps  the 
intellectual  history  of  the  Germans  is  not  without  peculiar  at- 
traction on  two  grounds :  first,  that  they  are  a  separate  un- 
mixed people ;  that  in  them  one  of  the  two  grand  stern-tribes, 
from  which  all  modern  European  countries  derive  their  popu- 
lation and  speech,  is  seen  growing  up  distinct,  and  in  several 
particulars  following  its  own  course ;  secondly,  that  by  acci- 
dent and  by  desert,  the  Germans  have  more  than  once  been 
found  playing  the  highest  part  in  European  culture ;  at  more 
than  one  era  the  grand  Tendencies  of  Europe  have  first  imbod- 
ied  themselves  into  action  in  Germany ;  the  main  battle  be- 
tween the  New  and  the  Old  has  been  fought  and  gained  there. 
We  mention  only  the  Swiss  Revolt  and  Luther's  Reformation. 
The  Germans  have  not  indeed  so  many  classical  works  to  ex 
hibit  as  some  other  nations  ;  a  Shakspeare,  a  Dante,  has  not 
yet  been  recognized  among  them  ;  nevertheless,  they  too  have 
had  their  Teachers  and  inspired  Singers  ;  and  in  regard  to 
popular  Mythology,  traditionary  possessions,  and  spirit,  what 
we  may  call  the  inarticulate  Poetry  of  a  nation,  and  what  is 
the  element  of  its  spoken  or  written  Poetry,  they  will  be  found 
superior  to  any  other  modern  people. 


EDITOR  8   PREFACE.  7 

"  The  Historic  Surveyor  of  German  Poetry  will  observe  a 
remarkable  nation  struggling  out  of  Paganism  ;  fragments  of 
that  stern  Superstition,  saved  from  the  general  wreck,  and  still, 
amid  the  new  order  things,  carrying  back  our  view,  in  faint 
reflexes,  into  the  dim  primeval  time.  By  slow  degrees  the 
thaos  of  the  Northern  Immigrations  settles  into  a  new  and 
fairer  world  ;  arts  advance  ;  little  by  little  a  fund  of  Knowledge 
of  Power  over  Nature,  is  accumulated  for  man ;  feeble  glim- 
merings, even  of  a  higher  knowledge,  of  a  poetic,  break  forth  ; 
till  at  length  in  the  Swabian  Era,  as  it  is  named,  a  blaze  of 
true  though  simple  Poetry  bursts  over  Germany,  more  splen- 
did, we  might  say,  than  the  Troubadour  Period  of  any  other 
nation  ;  for  that  famous  Nibdungen  Song,  produced,  at  least 
ultimately  fashioned  in  those  times,  and  still  so  insignificant  in 
these,  is  altogether  without  parallel  elsewhere. 

"  To  this  period,  the  essence  of  which  was  young  Wonder, 
and  an  enthusiasm  for  which  Chivalry  was  still  the  fit  expo- 
nent, there  succeeds,  as  was  natural,  a  period  of  Inquiry,  a  Di- 
dactic period;  wherein,  among  the  Germans,  as  elsewhere, 
many  a  Hugo  von  Trimberg  delivers  wise  saws  and  moral  apo- 
thegms to  the  general  edification  :  later,  a  Town-clerk  of  Stras- 
burg  sees  his  Ship  of  Fools  translated  into  all  living  languages, 
twice  into  Latin,  and  read  by  Kings ;  the  Apologue  of  Reynard 
the  Fox,  gathering  itself  together  from  sources  remote  and  near, 
assumes  its  Low-German  vesture,  and  becomes  the  darling  of 
high  and  low ;  nay,  still  lives  with  us,  in  rude  genial  vigor,  as 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  indigenous  productions  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  Nor  is  acted  poetry  of  this  kind  wanting  ;  the 
Spirit  of  Inquiry  translates  itself  into  Deeds  which  are  poetical, 
as  well  as  into  words  :  already  at  the  opening  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  Germany  witnesses  the  first  assertion  of  political  right, 
the  first  vindication  of  Man  against  Nobleman,  in  the  early 
history  of  the  German  Swiss.  And  again,  two  centuries  later, 


8  EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 

the  first  assertion  of  intellectual  right,  the  first  vindication  of 
Man  against  Clergyman,  in  the  history  of  Luther's  Reforma- 
tion. Meanwhile  the  Press  has  begun  its  incalculable  task ; 
the  indigenous  Fiction  of  the  Germans,  what  we  have  called 
their  inarticulate  Poetry,  issues  'n  innumerable  Volks-Bucher, 
(People's-Books),  the  progeny  and  kindred  of  which  still  live 
in  all  European  countries ;  tht  People  have  their  Tragedy  and 
their  Comedy ;  Tyll  Eulenspiegel  shakes  every  diaphragm 
with  laughter;  the  rudest  hear,  quails  with  awe  at  the  wild 
my  thus  of  Faiist. 

"  With  Luther,  howeve^  the  Didactic  Tendency  has  reached 
its  poetic  acme;  and  now  we  must  see  it  assume  a  prosaic 
character,  and  Poetry  for  a  long  while  decline.  The  Spirit  of 
Inquiry,  of  Criticism,  is  pushed  beyond  the  limits,  or  too  ex- 
clusively cultivated :  what  had  done  so  much,  is  capable  of 
doing  all ;  Understanding  is  alone  listened  to,  while  Fancy  and 
Imagination  languish  inactive,  or  are  forcibly  stifled ;  and  all 
poetic  culture  gradually  dies  away.  As  if  with  the  high  reso- 
lute genius,  and  noble  achievements,  of  its  Luthers  and  Hut- 
tens,  the  genius  of  the  country  had  exhausted  itself,  we  behoid 
generation  after  generation  of  mere  Prosaists  succeed  these 
high  Psalmists.  Science  indeed  advances,  practical  manipula- 
tion in  all  kinds  improves ;  Germany  has  its  Copernics,  Hevels, 
Guerickes,  Keplers ;  later,  a  Leibnitz  opens  the  path  of  true 
Logic,  and  teaches  the  mysteries  of  Figure  and  Number :  but 
the  finer  education  of  mankind  seems  at  a  stand.  Instead  of 
Poetic  recognition  and  worship,  we  have  stolid  Theologic  con- 
troversy, or  still  shallower  Freethinking  ;  pedantry,  servility, 
mode-hunting,  every  species  of  Idolatry  and  Affectation  holds 
sway.  The  World  has  lost  its  beauty,  Life  its  infinite  majesty, 
as  if  the  Author  of  it  were  no  longer  divine  :  instead  of  ad 
miration  and  creation  of  the  True,  there  is  at  best  criticism 
and  denial  of  the  False  ;  to  Luther  there  has  succeeded  Tho- 


EDITOR  S    PEEFACE.  9 

masius.  In  this  era,  so  unpoetical  for  all  Europe,  Germany 
torn  in  pieces  by  a  Thirty  Years'  War,  and  its  consequences, 
is  pre-eminently  prosaic  ;  its  few  Singers  are  feeble  echoes  of 
foreign  models  little  better  than  themselves.  No  Shakspeare, 
no  Milton  appears  there  ;  such,  indeed,  would  have  appeared 
earlier  if  at  all,  in  the  current  of  German  history  ;  but  instead, 
they  have  only  at  best  Opitzes,  Flemmings,  Logans,  as  we  had 
our  Queen  Anne  Wits  ;  or,  in  their  Lohensteines,  Gryphs, 
Hoffmannswaldaus,  though  in  inverse  order,  an  unintentional 
parody  of  our  Drydens  and  Lees. 

"  Nevertheless  from  every  moral  death  there  is  a  new  birth  ; 
in  this  wondrous  course  of  his,  man  may  indeed  linger,  but 
cannot  retrograde  or  stand  still.  In  the  middle  of  last  cen- 
tury, from  among  the  Parisian  Erotics,  rickety  Sentimentalism, 
Court  aperies,  and  hollow  Dulness,  striving  in  all  hopeless 
courses,  we  behold  the  giant  spirit  of  Germany  awaken  as  from 
long  slumber  ;  shake  away  these  worthless  fetters,  and,  by  its 
Lessings  and  Klopstocks,  announce,  in  true  German  dialect, 
that  the  Germans  also  are  men.  Singular  enough,  in  its  cir- 
cumstances was  this  resuscitation  ;  the  work  as  of  a  '  spirit 
on  the  waters,' — a  movement  agitating  the  great  popular 
mass  ;  for  it  was  favored  by  no  court  or  king  :  all  sovereign- 
ties, even  the  pettiest,  had  abandoned  their  native  Literature, 
their  native  language,  as  if  to  irreclaimable  barbarism.  The 
greatest  King  produced  in  Germany  since  Barbarossa's  time, 
Frederick  the  Second,  looked  coldly  on  the  native  endeavor, 
and  saw  no  hope  but  in  aid  from  France.  However,  the  na- 
tive endeavor  prospered  without  aid  :  Lessing's  announcement 
did  not  die  away  with  him,  but  took  clearer  utterance,  and 
more  inspired  modulation  from  his  followers  ;  in  whose  works 
it  now  speaks,  not  to  Germany  alone,  but  to  the  whole  world. 
The  results  of  this  last  Period  cf  German  Literature  are  of 
deep  significance,  the  depth  of  which  is  perhaps  but  now  be 


10  EDITOR'S  PBEFAOE. 

coming  visible.  Here,  too,  it  may  be,  as  iii  other  cases,  the 
Want  of  the  age  has  first  taken  voice  and  shape  in  Germany  ; 
that  change  from  Negation  to  Affirmation,  from  Destruction  to 
Reconstruction,  for  which  all  thinkers  in  every  country  are 
now  prepared,  is  perhaps  already  in  action  there.  In  the 
nobler  Literature  of  the  Germans,  say  some,  lie  the  rudiments 
of  a  new  spiritual  era,  which  it  is  for  this,  and  for  succeeding 
generations  to  work  out  and  realize.  The  ancient  creative 
Inspiration,  it  would  seem,  is  still  possible  in  these  ages  ;  at  a 
time  when  Skepticism,  Frivolity,  Sensuality,  had  withered  Life 
into  a  sand  desert,  and  our  gayest  prospect  was  but  the  false, 
mirage,  and  even  our  Byrons  could  utter  but  a  death-song  or 
despairing  howl,  the  Moses'-wand  has  again  smote  from  that 
Horeb  refreshing  streams,  towards  which  the  better  spirits  of 
all  nations  are  hastening,  if  not  to  drink,  yet  wistfully  and 
hopefully  to  examine.  If  the  older  Literary  History  of  Ger- 
many has  tlie  common  attractions,  which  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree  belong  to  the  successive  epochs  of  other  such  Histories, 
its  newer  Literature,  and  the  historical  delineation  of  this,  has 
an  interest  such  as  belongs  to  no  other." 

Carlyle  acknowledges  that  this  book  of  Madame  de  Stael 
has  done  away  with  the  prejudices  against  the  Germans.  We 
send  it  forth  in  a  new  dress,  with  careful  and  copious  annota- 
tation,  and  hope  it  may  prove  a  true  guide  to  those  who  are 
seeking  information  in  regard  to  a  great  people. 

0.  W.  WIGHT. 
JUNK,  1859. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOH 
PREFACE 13 

GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS  ...  21 


PART  I. 

OF  GERMANY,  AND  THE  MANNERS  OF  THE  GERMANS. 

CHAPTER  I. — Of  the  Aspect  of  Germany 27 

CHAP.  II. — Of  the  Manners  and  Characters  of  the  Germans SO 

CHAP.  III.— Of  the  Women 43 

CHAP.  IV. — Of  the  Influence  of  the  Spirit  of  Chivalry  on  Love  and 

Honor 46 

CHAP.  V. — Of  Southern  Germany 52 

CHAP.  VI.— Of  Austria 53 

CHAP.  VII.— Of  Vienna 59 

CHAP.  VIII.— Of  Society 66 

CHAP.  IX. — Of  the  Desire  among  Foreigners  of  imitating  the  French 

Spirit 69 

CHAP  X. — Of  supercilious  Folly  and  benevolent  Mediocrity 75 

CHAP.  XI. — Of  the  Spirit  of  Conversation 77 

CHAP.  XII. — Of  the  German  Language,  in  its  Effects  upon  the  Spirit  of 

Conversation 90 

CHAP.  XIII.— Of  Northern  Germany 93 

CHAP.  XIV.— Saxony 1)7 

CHAP.  XV.— Weimar 100 

CHAP.  XVI.— Prussia 105 

CHAP.  XVII.— Berlin Ill 

CHAP.  XVIII.— Of  the  German  Universities 11« 

CHAP.  XIX. — Of  particular  Institutions  for  Education,  and  Charitable 

Establishments 123 

THE  FETE  OF  INTERLACHEN...  ,.  135 


12  CONTEXTS. 

PART   II. 

ON  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AETS. 

FACE 

CHAP.  I. — Why  are  the  French  unjust  to  German  Literature  ? 145 

CHAP.  II. — Of  the  Judgment  formed  by  the  English  on  the  subject  of 

German  Literature 150 

CHAP.  III. — Of  the  principal  Epochs  of  German  Literature 153 

CHAP.  IV.— Wieland 158 

CHAP.  V. — Klopstock 161 

CHAP.  VI. — Lesslng  and  TTinckeimann 163 

CHAP.  VII.— Goethe 175 

CHAP.  Vin.— Schiller 179 

CHAP.  IX. — Of  Style,  and  of  Versification  in  the  German  Language . . .  183 

CHAP.  X.— Of  Poetry 193 

CHAP.  XI.— Of  Classic  and  Romantic  Poetry 198 

CHAP.  XII.— Of  German  Poems 204 

CHAP.  Xin.— Of  German  Poetry 224 

CHAP.  XIV.— Of  Taste ,249 

CHAP.  XV.— Of  the  Dramatic  Art 254 

CHAP.  XVI.— Of  the  Dramas  of  Lessing 4- 

CHAP.  XVII.— The  Bobbers  and  Don  Carlos  of  Schiller 270 

CHAP.  XVKL— Wallenstein  and  Mary  Stewart 280 

CHAP.  XIX. — Joan  of  Arc  and  the  Bride  of  Messina 308 

CHAP.  XX.— Wilhelm  Tell 324 

CHAP.  XXI. — Goetz  of  Berlichingen  and  the  Count  of  Egmont 336 

CHAP.  XXII.— Iphigenia  in  Tanris,  Torquato  Tasso,  &c.,  &c 351 

CHAP.  XXm.— Faust 361 

CHAP.  XXIV.— Lather,  Attila,  The  Sons  of  the  Valley,  The  Cross  on 

the  Baltic,  The  Twenty-Fourth  of  February,  by  Werner 391 


PREFACE, 


\it  October,  1813. 

IN  1810,  I  put  the  manuscript  of  this  work,  on  Germany, 
into  the  hands  of  the  bookseller,  who  had  published  Corinne. 
As  I  maintained  in  it  the  same  opinions,  and  preserved  the  same 
silence  respecting  the  present  government  of  the  French,  as  in 
my  former  writings,  I  flattered  myself  that  I  should  be  per- 
mitted to  publish  this  work  also  :  yet,  a  few  days  after  I  had 
dispatched  my  manuscript,  a  decree  of  a  very  singular  descrip- 
tion appeared  on  the  subject  of  the  liberty  of  the  press ;  it  de- 
clared "  that  no  work  could  be  printed  without  having  been 
examined  by  censors."  Very  well ;  it  was  usual  in  France, 
under  the  old  regime,  for  literary  works  to  be  submitted  to  the 
examination  of  a  censorship ;  the  tendency  of  public  opinion 
was  then  towards  the  feeling  of  liberty,  which  rendered  such  a 
restraint  a  matter  very  little  to  be  dreaded;  a  little  article, 
however,  at  the  end  of  the  new  regulation  declared,  "  that 
wher  the  censors  should  have  examined  a  work  and  permitted 
its  publication,  booksellers  should  be  authorized  to  publish  it, 
but  that  the  Minister  of  the  Police  should  still  have  a  right  to 
suppress  it  altogether,  if  he  should  think  fit  so  to  do."  The 
meaning  of  which  is,  that  such  and  such  forms  should  be 
adopted  until  it  should  be  thought  fit  no  longer  to  abide  by 
them :  a  law  was  not  necessary  to  decree  what  was  in  fact  the 
absence  of  all  law ;  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  relied 
simply  upon  the  exercise  of  absolute  power. 

My  bookseller,  however,  took  upon  himself  the  responsibility 
of  the  publication  of  my  book,  after  submitting  it  to  the  cen- 
sors, and  thus  our  contract  was  made.  I  came  to  reside  within 


14  MADAME   DE   STAEL5B   GEKMANY. 

forty  leagues  of  Paris,  to  superintend  the  printing  of  the  work, 
and  it  was  upon  this  occasion  that,  for  the  last  time,  I  breathed 
the  air  of  France.  I  had,  however,  abstained  in  this  book,  as 
will  be  seen,  from  making  any  reflections  on  the  political  state 
of  Germany  :  I  supposed  myself  to  be  writing  at  the  distance 
of  fifty  years  from  the  present  time;  but  the  present  time  will 
not  suffer  itself  to  be  forgotten.  Several  of  the  censors  exam- 
ined niy  manuscript ;  they  suppressed  the  different  passages 
which  I  have  now  restored  and  pointed  out  by  notes.  With 
the  exception,  however,  of  these  passages,  they  allowed  the 
work  to  be  printed,  as  I  now  publish  it,  for  I  have  thought  it 
my  duty  to  make  no  alteration  in  it.  It  appears  to  me  a  curi- 
ous thing  to  show  what  the  work  is,  which  is  capable  even 
now  in  France,  of  drawing  down  the  most  cruel  persecution  on 
the  head  of  its  author. 

At  the  moment  when  this  work  was  about  to  appear,  and 
when  the  ten  thousand  copies  of  the  first  edition  had  been 
actually  printed  off,  the  Minister  of  the  Police,  known  under 
the  name  of  General  Savary,  sent  his  gensdarmes  to  the  house 
of  the  bookseller,  with  orders  to  tear  the  whole  edition  in 
pieces,  and  to  place  sentinels  at  the  different  entrances  to  the 
warehouses,  for  fear  a  single  copy  of  this  dangerous  writing 
should  escape.  A  commissary  of  police  was  charged  with  the 
superintendence  of  this  expedition,  in  which  General  Savary 
easily  obtained  the  victory ;  and  the  poor  commissary,  it  is 
said,  died  of  the  fatigue  he  underwent  in  too  minutely  assur- 
ing himself  of  the  destruction  of  so  great  a  number  of  volumes, 
or  rather  in  seeing  them  transformed  into  paper  perfectly  white 
upon  which  no  trace  of  human  reason  remained ;  the  price  ot 
the  paper,  valued  at  twenty  louis  by  the  police,  was  the  only 
indemnification  which  the  bookseller  obtained  from  the  min- 
ister. 

At  the  same  time  that  the  destruction  of  my  work  was  going 
on  at  Paris,  I  received  in  the  country  an  order  to  deliver  up 
the  copy  from  which  it  had  been  printed,  and  to  quit  France 
in  four-and -twenty  hours.  The  conscripts  are  almost  the  only 
persons  I  know  for  whom  four-and-twenty  hours  are  considered 


PREFACE.  15 

a  sufficient  time  to  prepare  for  a  journey ;  I  wrote,  therefore, 
to  the  Minister  of  the  Police  that  I  should  require  eight  days 
to  nroeure  money  and  my  carriage.  The  following  is  the  letter 
which  Le  sent  me  in  answer : 

GENERAL  POLICE,  Minister's  Office,  j 
Paris,  3d  October.  1810.  j 

"  I  received,  Madam,  the  letter  that  you  did  me  the  honor 
to  write  me.  Your  son  will  have  apprised  you,  that  I  had 
no  objection  to  your  postponing  your  departure  for  seven  or 
eight  days.  I  beg  you  will  make  that  time  sufficient  for  the 
arrangements  you  still  have  to  make,  because  I  cannot  grant 
you  more. 

"  The  cause  of  the  order  which  1  have  signified  to  you,  is 
not  to  be  looked  for  in  the  silence  you  have  preserved  with 
respect  to  the  Emperor  in  your  last  work;  that  would  be  a 
mistake ;  no  place  could  be  found  in  it  worthy  of  him ;  but 
your  banishment  is  a  natural  consequence  of  the  course  you 
have  constantly  pursued  for  some  years  past.  It  appeared  to 
me,  that  the  air  of  this  country  did  not  agree  with  you,  and 
we  are  not  yet  reduced  to  seek  for  models  among  the  people 
you  admire. 

"  Your  last  work  is  not  French ;  it  is  I  who  have  put  a  stop 
to  the  publication  of  it.  I  am  sorry  for  the  loss  the  bookseller 
must  sustain,  but  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  suffer  it  to 
appear. 

"  You  know,  Madam,  that  you  were  only  permitted  to  quit 
Coppet,  because  you  had  expressed  a  desire  to  go  to  America. 
If  my  predecessor  suffered  you  to  remain  in  the  department  of 
Loire-et-Cher,  you  were  not  to  look  upon  that  indulgence  as  a 
revocation  of  the  orders  which  had  been  given  with  respect  to 
you.  At  present,  you  oblige  me  to  cause  them  to  be  strictly 
executed,  and  you  have  only  yourself  to  accuse  for  it. 

'•  1  desire  M.  Corbigny '  to  suspend  the  execution  of  the 
order  I  had  given  him,  until  the  expiration  of  the  time  I  now 
grant  you, 

»  Prefect  of  Loire-et-Cher. 


16  MADAME   DB    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

*'  I  regret,  Madam,  that  you  have  obliged  me  to  commence 
my  correspondence  with  you  by  a  measure  of  severity ;  it 
would  have  been  more  agreeable  to  me  to  have  had  only  to 
offer  you  the  testimonies  of  the  high  consideration  with  which 
I  have  the  honor  to  be,  Madam,  your  very  humble  and  verv 
obedient  servant 

(Signed)  "  THE  DUKE  DE  ROVIGO." 

"  MAD.  DE  STAEL. 

"  P.  S.  1  have  reasons,  Madam,  for  mentioning  to  you  the 
ports  of  Lorient,  la  Rochelle,  Bourdeaux,  and  Rochefort,  as 
being  the  only  ports  at  which  you  can  embark ;  I  beg  you  will 
let  me  know  whioh  of  them  you  choose." ' 

I  shall  add  some  reflections  upon  this  letter,  although  it 
appears  to  me  curious  enough  in  itself.  "  It  appeared  to  me," 
said  General  Savary,  "that  the  air  of  this  country  did  not 
agree  with  you  ;"  what  a  gracious  manner  of  announcing  to  a 
woman,  then,  alas !  the  mother  of  three  children,  the  daughter 
of  a  man  who  had  served  France  vith  so  much  fidelity,  that 
she  was  banished  forever  from  the  place  of  her  birth,  without 
being  suffered,  in  any  manner,  to  protest  against  a  punishment, 
esteemed  the  next  in  severity  to  death !  There  is  a  French 
vaudeville,  in  which  a  bailiff,  boasting  of  his  politeness  towards 
those  persons  whom  he  takes  to  prison,  says, 

"  Aussi  je  snis  aim£  de  tout  ceux  que  j'arrete." s 

I  know  not  whether  such  was  the  intention  of  General  Savary. 
He  adds,  that  the  French  are  not  reduced  to  seek  for  models 
among  the  people  I  admire.  These  people  are  the  English 
first,  and  in  many  respects  the  Germans.  At  all  events,  I 
think  I  cannot  be  accused  of  not  loving  France.  I  have  shown 
but  too  much  sensibility  in  being  exiled  from  a  country  where 
I  have  so  many  objects  of  affection,  and  where  those  who  are 
dear  to  me  delight  me  so  much !  But,  notwithstanding  this 


1  The  object  of  this  Postscript  was  to  forbid  me  the  Ports  of  the  Channel. 
8  "  So  I  am  loved  by  all  I  arrest." 


PREFACE.  17 

attachment,  perhaps  too  lively,  for  so  brilliant  a  country,  and 
its  spiritual  inhabitants,  it  did  not  follow  that  I  was  to  be  for- 
bidden to  admire  England.  She  has  been  seen  like  a  knight 
armed  for  the  defence  of  social  order,  preserving  Europe  during 
ten  years  of  anarchy,  and  ten  years  more  of  despotism.  Her 
happy  constitution  was,  at  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution,  the 
object  of  the  hopes  and  the  efforts  of  the  French ;  my  mind 
still  remains  where  theirs  was  then. 

On  my  return  to  the  estate  of  my  father,  the  Prefet  of  Ge- 
neva forbade  me  to  go  to  a  greater  distance  than  four  leagues 
from  it.  I  suffered  myself  one  day  to  go  as  far  as  ten  leagues, 
merely  for  an  airing:  the  gensdarmes  immediately  pursued 
me,  the  postmasters'  were  forbidden  to  supply  me  with  horses, 
and  it  would  have  appeared  as  if  the  safety  of  the  State  de- 
pended on  such  a  weak  being  as  myself.  However,  I  still  sub- 
mitted to  this  imprisonment  in  all  its  severity,  when  a  last 
blow  rendered  it  quite  insupportable  to  me.  Some  of  my 
friends  were  banished,  because  they  had  had  the  generosity  to 
come  and  see  me ;  this  was  too  much :  co  carry  with  us  the 
contagion  of  misfortune,  not  to  dare  to  associate  with  those  we 
love,  to  be  afraid  to  write  to  them,  or  pronounce  their  names, 
to  be  the  object  by  turns,  either  of  affectionate  attentions 
which  make  us  tremble  for  those  who  show  them,  or  of  those 
refinements  of  baseness  which  terror  inspires,  is  a  situation 
from  which  every  one,  who  still  values  life,  would  withdraw ! 

I  was  told,  as  a  means  of  softening  my  grief,  that  these  con- 
tinual persecutions  were  a  proof  of  the  importance  that  was  at- 
tached to  me ;  I  could  have  answered  that  I  had  not  deserved 

"  Ni  cet  exce's  d'honeur,  ni  cette  indignity  ;"2 
but  I  never  suffered  myself  to  look  to  consolations  addressed 

1  The  Maitre  de  Paste  is  one  who  has  charge  of  a  station  of  post-horses. 
Sucfh  stations  are  found,  seven  or  eight  miles  from  each  other,  on  all  the 
highways  of  Europe.  They  are  regulated  by  government,  and  all  travel- 
lers, by  complying  with  certain  forms,  can  demand  horses  at  any  station 
to  convey  them  to  the  next.  There  is  no  corresponding  system  in  this 
country. — Ed. 

*  "  Neither  this  excess  of  honor,  nor  this  indignity." 


18  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

to  my  vanity  ;  for  I  knew  that  there  was  no  one  then  in 
France,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  who  might  not  have 
been  found  worthy  of  being  made  unhappy.  I  was  tormented 
in  a\]  the  concerns  of  my  life,  in  all  the  tender  points  of  my 
character,  and  power  condescended  to  take  the  trouble  of  be- 
coming wTell  acquainted  with  me,  in  order  the  more  effectually 
to  enhance  my  sufferings.  Xot  being  able  then  to  disarm 
that  power  by  the  simple  sacrifice  of  my  talents,  and  resolved 
not  to  employ  them  in  its  service,  I  seemed  to  feel,  to  the  bot- 
tom of  my  heart,  the  advice  my  father  had  given  me,  and  I 
left  my  paternal  home. 

I  think  it  my  duty  to  make  this  calumniated  book  known  to 
the  public — this  book,  the  source  of  so  many  troubles ;  and, 
though  General  Savary  told  me  in  Ids  letter  that  my  work  was 
not  French,  as  I  certainly  do  not  Consider  him  to  be  the  repre- 
sentative of  France,  it  is  to  Frenchmen  such  as  I  have  known 
them,  that  I  should  with  confidence  address  a  production,  in 
which  I  have  endeavored,  to  the  best  of  my  abilities,  to  height- 
en the  glory  of  the  works  of  the  human  mind. 

Germany  may  be  considered,  from  its  geographical  situation, 
as  the  heart  of  Europe,  and  the  great  association  of  the  Conti- 
nent can  never  recover  its  independence  but  by  the  independ- 
ence of  this  country.  Difference  of  language,  natural  bounda- 
ries, the  recollections  of  a  common  history,  contribute  alto- 
gether to  give  birth  to  those  great  individual  existences  of 
mankind,  which  we  call  nations ;  certain  proportions  are  ne- 
cessary to  their  existence,  certain  qualities  distinguish  them ; 
and,  if  Germany  were  united  to  France,  the  consequence  would 
be,  that  France  would  also  be  united  to  Germany,  and  the 
Frenchmen  of  Hamburg,  like  the  Frenchmen  of  Rome,  would 
by  degrees  effect  a  change  in  the  character  of  the  countrymen 
of  Henry  the  Fourth  :  the  vanquished  would  in  time  modify 
the  victors,  and  in  the  end  both  would  be  losers. 

I  have  said  in  my  work  that  the  Germans  were  not  a  iiation  ; 
assuredly,  they  are  at  this  moment  heroically  disproving  that 
assertion.  But,  nevertheless,  do  we  not  still  see  some  German 
countries  expose  themselves  by  fighting  against  their  country- 


PREFACE.  19 

men,  to  the  contempt  even  of  their  allies,  the  French  ?  Those 
auxiliaries  (whose  names  we  hesitate  to  pronounce,  as  if  it  were 
not  yet  too  late  to  conceal  them  from  posterity) — those  auxil- 
iaries, I  say,  are  not  led  either  by  opinion  or  even  by  interest, 
still  less  by  honor ;  but  a  blind  fear  has  precipitated  their  gov- 
ernments towards  the  strongest  side,  without  reflecting  that 
they  were  themselves  the  cause  of  that  very  strength  before 
which  they  bowed. 

The  Spaniards,  to  whom  we  may  apply  South ey's  beautiful 
line, 

"And  those  who  suffer  bravely  save  mankind  ;" 

the  Spaniards  have  seen  themselves  reduced  to  the  possession 
of  Cadiz  alone  ;  but  they  were  no  more  ready  then  to  submit 
to  the  yoke  of  strangers,  than  they  are  now  when  they  have 
reached  the  barrier  of  the  Pyrenees,  and  are  defended  by  that 
mat  of  an  ancient  character  and  a  modern  genius,  Lord  Wel- 
lington. But  to  accomplish  these  great  things,  a  perseverance 
was  necessary,  which  would  not  be  discouraged  by  events. 

The  Germans  have  frequently  fallen  into  the  error  of  suffer- 
ing themselves  to  be  overcome  by  reverses.  Individuals  ought 
to  submit  to  destiry,  but  nations  never ;  for  they  alone  can 
conmand  destiny :  with  a  little  more  exertion  of  the  will,  mis 
fortune  would  be  conquered. 

The  submission  of  one  people  to  another  is  contrary  to  na  • 
turo.  Who  would  new  believe  in  the  possibility  of  subduing 
Spain,  Russia,  England  or  France?  Why  should  it  not  be 
the  same  with  Germany  ?  If  the  Germans  could  be  subjugated, 
their  misfortune  would  rend  the  heart :  but,  as  Mile,  de  Man 
cini  said  to  Louis  XIV,  "You  are  a  king,  sire,  and  iceep!" 
so  we  should  always  be  tempted  to  say  to  them,  "  You  are  a 
nation,  and  you  weep !" 

The  picture  of  literature  and  philosophy,  seems  indeed  for- 
eign from  the  present  moment ;  yet  it  will  be  grateful,  perhaps, 
to  this  poor  and  noble  Germany,  to  recall  the  memory  of  its 
intellectual  riches  amid  the  ravages  of  war.  It  is  three  years 
since  I  designated  Prussia,  and  the  countries  of  the  North 


20  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

which  surround  it,  as  the  country  of  thought ;  into  how  many 
noble  actions  has  this  thought  been  transformed !  That  to 
which  the  systems  of  Philosophers  led  the  way  is  coming  to 
pass,  and  the  independence  of  mind  is  about  to  lay  the  founda- 
tion of  the  independence  of  nations. 


GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS. 


THE  origin  of  the  principal  nations  of  Europe  may  be  traced 
to  three  great  distinct  races, — the  Latin,  the  German,  and  the 
Sclavonic.  The  Italians,  the  French,  the  Spaniards,  and  the 
Portuguese,  have  derived  their  civilization  and  their  language 
from  Rome ;  the  Germans,  the  Swiss,  the  English,  the  Swedes, 
the  Danes,  and  the  Hollanders,  are  Teutonic  peoples;1  the 
Poles  and  Russians  occupy  the  first  rank  among  the  Sclavonic. 
Those  nations  whose  intellectual  culture  is  of  Latin  origin 
were  the  earliest  civilized ;  they  have  for  the  most  part  inher- 
ited the  quick  sagacity  of  the  Romans  in  the  conduct  of 
worldly  aflairs.  Social  institutions,  founded  on  the  Pagan  re- 
ligion, preceded  among  them  the  establishment  of  Christianity  ; 
and  when  the  peoples  of  the  North  came  to  conquer  them, 
those  very  peoples  adopted  in  many  respects  the  customs  of 
the  countries  which  they  conquered. 

These  observations  must  no  doubt  be  modified  by  reference 
to  climates  governments,  and  the  facts  of  each  individual  his 
tory.  The  ecclesiastical  power  has  left  indelible  traces  in  Italy. 
Their  long  wars  with  the  Arabs  have  strengthened  the  military 
habits  and  enterprising  spirit  of  the  Spaniards ;  but,  generally 
speaking,  all  that  part  of  Europe,  of  which  the  languages  are 
derived  from  the  Latin,  and  which  was  early  initiated  in  the 
Roman  policy,  bears  the  character  of  a  long-existing  civiliza- 
tion of  Pagan  origin.  We  there  find  less  inclination  to  abstract 
reflection  than  among  the  Germanic  nations ;  they  are  more 


i  This  word,  in  the  plural,  which  supplies  a  real  need,  may  now  be  re- 
garded as  naturalized  in  the  English  language. — Ed. 


22  MADAME    DE    STAEES    GERMANY. 

addicted  to  the  pleasures  and  the  interests  of  the  earth,  and, 
like  their  founders,  the  Romans,  they  alone  know  how  to  prac- 
tice the  art  of  dominion. 

The  Germanic  nations  almost  constantly  resisted  the  Roman 
yoke ;  they  were  more  lately  civilized,  and  by  Christianity 
alone ;  they  passed  instantaneously  from  a  sort  of  barbarism 
to  the  refinement  of  Christian  intercourse ;  the  times  of  chiv- 
alry, the  spirit  of  the  middle  ages,  form  their  most  lively  recol- 
lections ;  and  although  the  learned  of  these  countries  have 
studied  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors  more  deeply  even  than 
the  Latin  nations  themselves,  the  genius  natural  to  German 
writers  is  of  a  color  rather  Gothic  than  classical.  Their  imagi- 
nation delights  in  old  towers  and  battlements,  among  sorcer- 
esses and  spectres ;  and  mysteries  of  a  meditative  and  solitary 
nature  form  the  principal  charm  of  their  poetry. 

The  analogy  which  exists  among  all  the  Teutonic  nations  is 
such  as  cannot  be  mistaken.  The  social  dignity  for  which  the 
English  are  indebted  to  their  constitution,  assures  to  them,  it 
is  true,  a  decided  superiority  over  the  rest;  nevertheless,  the 
same  traits  of  character  are  constantly  met  with  among  all  the 
different  peoples  of  Germanic  origin.  They  were  all  distin- 
guished, from  the  earliest  times,  by  their  independence  and 
loyalty ;  they  have  ever  been  good  and  faithful ;  and  it  is  for 
this  very  reason,  perhaps,  that  their  writings  universally  bear 
an  impression  of  melancholy ;  for  it  often  happens  to  nations, 
as  to  individuals,  to  suffer  for  their  virtues. 

The  civilization  of  the  Sclavonic  tribes  having  been  of  much 
later  date  and  of  more  rapid  growth  than  that  of  other  peoples, 
there  has  been  hitherto  seen  among  them  more  imitation  than 
originality :  all  that  they  possess  of  European  growth  is  French ; 
what  they  have  derived  from  Asia  is  not  yet  sufficiently  devel- 
oped to  enable  their  writings  to  display  the  true  character 
which  would  be  natural  to  them.  Throughout  literary  Europe, 
then,  there  are  but  two  great  divisions  strongly  marked :  the 
literature  which  is  imitated  from  the  ancients,  and  that  which 
owes  its  birth  to  the  spirit  of  the  middle  ages ;  that  which  in 
its  origin  received  from  the  genius  of  Paganism  its  color  and 


GENERAL    OBSERVATIONS.  Zd 

its  charm,  and  that  which  owes  its  impulse  and  development 
to  a  religion  intrinsically  spiritual. 

It  might  be  said,  with  reason,  that  the  French  and  the  Ger- 
mans are  at  the  two  extremes  of  the  moral  chain ;  since  the 
former  regard  external  objects  as  the  source  of  all  ideas,  and 
the  latter,  ideas  as  the  source  of  all  impressions.  These  two 
nations,  nevertheless,  agree  together  pretty  well  in  their  social 
relations ;  but  none  can  be  more  opposite  in  their  literary  and 
philosophical  systems.  Intellectual  Germany  is  hardly  known 
to  France :  very  few  n»en  of  letters  among  us  have  troubled 
themselves  about  her.  It  is  true  that  a  much  greater  number 
have  set  themselves  up  foi  her  judges.  This  agreeable  light- 
ness, which  makes  men  pronounce  on  matters  of  which  they 
are  ignorant,  may  appear  elegant  in  talking,  but  not  in  writing. 
The  Germans  often  run  into  the  error  of  introducing  into  con- 
versation what  is  fit  only  for  books ;  the  French  sometimes 
commit  the  contrary  fault  of  inserting  in  books  what  is  fit  only 
for  conversation ;  and  we  have  so  exhausted  all  that  is  super 
ficial,  that,  were  it  only  for  ornament,  and,  above  all,  for  the 
sake  of  variety,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  well  to  try 
something  deeper. 

For  these  reasons  I  have  believed  that  there  might  be  some 
advantage  in  making  known  that  country  in  which,  of  all  Eu- 
rope, study  and  meditation  have  been  carried  so  far,  that  it 
may  be  considered  as  the  native  land  of  thought.  The  reflec- 
tions which  the  country  itself  and  its  literary  works  have  sug- 
gested to  me,  will  be  divided  into  four  sections.  The  first  will 
treat  of  Germany  and  the  Manners  of  the  Germans ;  the  second, 
of  Literature  and  the  Arts ;  the  third,  of  Philosophy  and  Mor- 
als ;  the  fourth,  of  Religion  and  Enthusiasm.  These  different 
subjects  necessarily  fall  into  one  another.  The  national  char- 
acter has  its  influence  on  the  literature ;  the  literature  and  the 
philosophy  on  the  religion ;  and  the  whole  taken  together  can 
only  make  each  distinct  part  properly  intelligible  :  it  was  ne- 
cessary, notwithstanding,  to  submit  to  an  apparent  division,  in 
oidei  ultimately  to  collect  all  the  rays  in  the  same  focus. 

J  do  not  conceal  fiom  myself  that  I  am  about  to  make,  in 


24  MADA31E   DE    STAKL?S    GERMANY. 

literature  as  well  as  in  philosophy,  an  exposition  of  opinions 
foreign  to  those  which  are  dominant  in  France ;  but,  let  them 
appear  just  or  not,  let  them  be  adopted  or  combated,  they 
•will,  at  all  events,  yield  scope  for  reflection.  "  We  need  not, 
I  imagine,  wish  to  encircle  the  frontiers  of  literary  France  with 
the  great  wall  of  China,  to*  prevent  all  exterior  ideas  from  pen- 
etrating within." l 

It  is  impossible  that  the  German  writers,  the  best-informed 
and  most  reflecting  men  in  Europe,  should  not  deserve  a  mo- 
ment's attention  to  be  bestowed  on  their  literature  and  their 
philosophy.  It  is  objected  to  the  one,  that  it  is  not  in  good 
taste ;  to  the  other,  that  it  is  full  of  absurdities.  It  is  possible, 
however,  that  there  may  be  a  species  of  literature  not  conform- 
able to  our  laws  of  good  taste,  and  that  it  may  nevertheless 
contain  new  ideas,  which,  modified  after  our  manner,  would 
tend  to  enrich  us.  It  is  thus  that  we  are  indebted  to  the 
Greeks  for  Racine,  and  to  Shakspeare  for  many  of  the  tragedies 
of  Voltaire.  The  sterility  with  which  our  literature  is  threat- 
ened may  lead  us  to  suppose  that  the  French  spirit  itself  has 
need  of  being  renewed  by  a  more  vigorous  sap ;  and  as  the  el- 
egance of  society  will  always  preserve  us  from  certain  faults,  it 
is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  us,  to  find  again  this  source  of 
superior  beauties. 

After  having  rejected  the  literature  of  the  Germans  in  the 
name  of  good  taste,  we  think  that  we  may  also  get  rid  of  their 
philosophy  in  the  name  of  reason.  Good  taste  and  reason  are 
words  which  it  is  always  pleasant  to  pronounce,  even  at  ran- 
dom ;  but  can  we  in  good  faith  persuade  ourselves  that  writers 
of  immense  erudition,  who  are  as  well  acquainted  with  all 


1  These  commas  are  used  to  mark  the  passages  which  the  censors  of  Paris 
required  to  be  suppressed.  In  the  second  volume  they  discovered  noth- 
ing reprehensible;  but  the  chapters  on  Enthusiasm  in  the  third,  anJ,  above 
all,  the  concluding  paragraph  of  the  work,  did  not  meet  their  approbation. 
I  was  ready  to  submit  to  their  censures  in  a  negative  manner ;  that  is,  by 
retrenching  without  making  any  further  additions ;  but  the  gensdarm&s, 
sent  by  the  Minister  of  Police,  executed  the  office  of  censors  in  a  more  bru- 
tal manner,  by  tearing  the  whole  book  in  pieces. 


GENERAL    OBSERVATIONS.  25 

French  books  as  ourselves,  have  been  employed  for  these  twen- 
ty years  upon  mere  absurdities  ? 

In  the  ages  of  superstition,  all  new  opinions  are  easily  ac- 
cused of  impiety ;  and  in  the  ages  of  incredulity,  they  are  not 
less  easily  charged  with  being  absurd.  In  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, Galileo  was  delivered  up  to  the  Inquisition  for  having 
said  that  the  world  went  round;  and  in  the  eighteenth,  some 
persons  wished  to  make  J.  J.  Rousseau  pass  for  a  fanatical  dev- 
otee. Opinions  which  differ  from  the  ruling  spirit,  be  that 
what  it  may,  always  scandalize  the  vulgar :  study  and  exami- 
nation can  alone  confer  that  liberality  of  judgment,  without 
which  it  is  impossible  to  acquire  new  lights,  or  even  to  pre- 
serve those  which  we  have ;  for  we  submit  ourselves  to  cer- 
tain received  ideas,  not  as  to  truths,  but  as  to  power ;  and  it 
is  thus  that  human  reason  habituates  itself  to  servitude,  even 
in  the  field  of  literature  and  philosophy. 

VOL.  I.— 2 


PART  I. 

OF    GERMANY, 

AND 

THF  MANNERS   OF  THE  GERMANS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF    THE    ASPECT    OF    GERMANY. 

THE  number  and  extent  of  forests  indicate  a  civilization  yet 
recent :  the  ancient  soil  of  the  South  is  almost  unfurnished  of 
its  trees,  and  the  sun  darts  its  perpendicular  rays  on  the  earth 
which  has  been  laid  bare  by  man.  Germany  still  affords  some 
traces  of  uninhabited  nature.  From  the  Alps  to  the  sea,  be- 
tween the  Rhine  and  the  Danube,  you  behold  a  land  covered 
with  oaks  and  firs,  intersected  by  rivers  of  an  imposing  beauty, 
and  by  mountains  of  a  most  picturesque  aspect ;  but  vast 
heaths  and  sands,  roads  often  neglected,  a  severe  climate,  at 
first  fill  the  mind  with  gloom ;  nor  is  it  till  after  some  time 
that  it  discovers  vrhat  may  attach  us  to  such  a  country. 

The  south  of  Germany  is  highly  cultivated  ;  yet  in  the  most 
delightful  districts  of  this  country  there  is  always  something  of 
seriousness,  which  calls  the  imagination  rather  to  thoughts  of 
labor  than  of  pleasure,  rather  to  the  virtues  of  the  inhabitants 
than  to  the  charms  of  nature. 

The  ruins  of  castles  which  are  seen  on  the  heights  of  the 
mountains,  houses  built  of  mud,  narrow  windows,  the  snows 
which  during  winter  covet  the  plains  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  make  a  painful  impression  on  the  mind.  An  indescriba- 


28  MADAME   DE    STAEL'g    GERMANY. 

ble  silence  in  nature  and  in  the  people,  at  first  oppresses  the 
heart.  It  seems  as  if  time  moved  more  slowly  there  than  else- 
where, as  if  vegetation  made  not  a  more  rapid  progress  in  the 
earth  than  ideas  in  the  heads  of  men,  and  as  if  the  regular 
furrows  of  the  laborer  were  there  traced  upon  a  dull  soil. 

Nevertheless,  when  we  have  overcome  these  first  unreflect- 
ing sensations,  the  country  and  its  inhabitants  offer  to  the 
observation  something  at  once  interesting  and  poetical  ;  we 
feel  that  gentle  souls  and  tender  imaginations  have  embellish- 
ed these  fields.  The  high-roads  are  planted  with  fruit-trees 
for  the  refreshment  of  the  traveller.  The  landscapes  which 
surround  the  Rhine  are  everywhere  magnificent  :  this  river 
may  be  called  the  tutelary  genius  of  Germany  ;  his  waves  are 
pure,  rapid,  and  majestic,  like  the  life  of  a  hero  of  antiquity. 
The  Danube  is  divided  into  many  branches ;  the  streams  of 
the  Elbe  and  Spree  are  disturbed  too  easily  by  the  tempest ; 
the  Rhine  ajone  is  unchangeable.  The  countries  through 
which  it  flows  appear  at  once  of  a  character  so  grave  and  so 
diversified,  so  fruitful  and  so  solitary,  that  one  would  be  tempt- 
ed to  believe  that  they  owe  their  cultivation  to  the  genius  of 
the  river,  and  that  man  is  as  nothing  to  them.  Its  tide,  as  it 
flows  along,  relates  the  high  deeds  of  the  days  of  old,  and  the 
shade  of  Arminius  seems  still  to  wander  on  its  precipitous  banks. 

The  monuments  of  Gothic  antiquity  only  are  remarkable  in 
Germany  ;  these  monuments  recall  the  ages  of  chivalry  ;  in 
almost  every  town  a  public  museum  preserves  the  relics  of 
those  days.  One  would  say,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  North, 
conquerors  of  the  world,  when  they  quitted  Germany,  left  be- 
hind memorials  of  themselves  under  different  forms,  and  that 
the  whole  land  resembles  the  residence  of  some  great  people 
long  since  left  vacant  by  its  possessors.  In  most  of  the  arse- 
nals of  German  towns,  we  meet  with  figures  of  knights  in 
painted  wood,  clad  in  their  armor  ;  the  helmet,  the  buckler, 
the  cuisses,  the  spurs, — all  is  according  to  ancient  custom  ; 
and  we  walk  among  these  standing  dead,  whose  uplifted  arms 
seem  ready  to  strike  their  adversaries,  who  also  hold  their 
lances  in  rest.  This  motionless  image  of  actions,  formerly  so 


THE   ASPECT    OF    GERMAKT.  29 

lively,  causes  a  painful  impression.  It  is  thus  that,  long  after 
earthquakes,  the  bodies  of  men  have  been  discovered  still  fixed 
in  the  same  attitudes,  in  the  action  of  the  same  thoughts  that 
occupied  them  at  the  instant  when  they  were  swallowed  up. 

Modern  architecture  in  Germany  offers  nothing  to  our  con- 
templation worthy  of  being  recorded ;  but  the  towns  are  in 
general  well  built,  and  are  embellished  by  the  proprietors  with 
a  sort  of  good-natured  care.  In  many  towns,  the  houses  are 
paiHied  on  the  outside  with  various  colors ;  one  sees  upon  them 
the  figures  of  saints,  and  ornaments  of  every  description,  which, 
though  assuredly  not  the  most  correct  in  taste,  yet  cause  a 
cheerful  variety,  and  seem  to  indicate  a  benevolent  desire  to 
please  both  their  fellow-countrymen  and  strangers.  The  daz- 
zling splendor  of  a  palace  gratifies  the  self-love  of  its  possess- 
ors ;  but  the  well-designed  and  carefully-finished  decorations, 
which  set  off  these  little  dwellings,  have  something  in  them 
kind  and  hospitable. 

The  gardens  are  almost  as  beautiful  in  some  parts  of  Ger- 
many as  in  England  :  the  luxury  of  gardens  always  implies  a 
love  of  the  country.  In  England,  simple  mansions  are  often 
built  in  the  middle  of  the  most  magnificent  parks ;  the  proprie- 
tor neglects  his  dwelling  to  attend  to  the  ornaments  of  nature. 
This  magnificence  and  simplicity  united  do  not,  it  is  true,  exist 
in  the  same  degree  in  Germany ;  yet,  in  spite  of  the  want  of 
wealth  and  the  pride  of  feudal  dignity,  there  is  everywhere  to 
be  remarked  a  certain  love  of  the  beautiful,  which,  sooner  or 
later,  must  be  followed  by  taste  and  elegance,  of  which  it  is 
the  only  real  source.  Often,  in  the  midst  of  the  superb  gar- 
dens of  the  German  princes,  are  placed  ^Eolian  harps  close  by 
grottoes  encircled  with  flowers,  that  the  wind  may  waft  the 
sound  and  the  perfume  together.  The  imagination  of  the 
northern  people  thus  endeavors  to  create  for  itself  a  sort  of 
Italy ;  and,  during  the  brilliant  days  of  a  short-lived  summer, 
it  sometimes  attains  the  deception  it  seeks.' 


1  We  will  here  add,  from  the  Westminster  Review  (July,  1856,  p.  72), 
a  summary  of  W.  H.  Eichl's  admirable  view  of  the  physical-geographical 


30  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OF  THE  MANNERS  AND  CHARACTER  OF  THE  GERMANS. 

ONLY  a  few  general  features  are  applicable  to  the  whole 
German  nation  ;  for  the  diversities  of  this  country  are  such, 
that  it  is  difficult  to  bring  together  under  one  point  of  view, 
religions,  governments,  climates,  and  even  peoples  so  different. 


relations  of  the  German  people.  Herr  Riehl's  three  books, — Land  and 
People  (Land  und  Leute),  Town  Society  (Burgerliche  G(Sfllsckaft),  and 
The  Family  (Die  Familie),  which  are  the  three  parts  of  one  work  on  the 
Natural  History  of  the  Germanic  race  (Naturgegchiehte  des  lolkes),  are  in- 
comparable models  of  their  kind,  at  once  interesting  as  literature,  rich  in 
reliable  facts,  and  sober  in  theory. 

"  The  natural  divisions  of  German}-,  founded  on  its  physical  geography, 
are  threefold ;  namely,  the  low  plains,  the  middle  mountain  region,  and 
the  high  mountain  region,  or  Lower,  Middle,  and  Upper  Germany ;  and  on 
this  primary  natural  division  all  the  other  broad  ethnographical  distinc- 
tions of  Germany  will  be  found  to  rest.  The  plains  of  North  or  Lower 
Germany  include  all  the  seaboard  the  nation  possesses ;  and  this,  together 
with  the  fact  that  they  are  traversed  to  the  depth  of  six  hundred  miles  by 
navigable  rivers,  makes  them  the  natural  seat  of  a  trading  race.  Quite 
different  is  the  geographical  character  of  Mid'ile  Germany.  While  the 
northern  plains  are  marked  off  into  great  divisions  by  such  rivers  as  the 
Lower  Khine,  the  Weser,  and  the  Oder,  running  almost  in  parallel  lines, 
this  central  region  is  cut  up  like  a  mosaic  by  the  capricious  lines  of  valleys 
and  rivers.  Here  is  the  region  in  which  you  find  those  famous  roofs  from 
which  the  rain-water  runs  towards  two  different  seas,  and  the  mountain- 
tops  from  which  you  may  look  into  eight  or  ten  Gsnnan  States.  The 
abundance  of  water-power,  and  the  presence  of  extensive  coal  mines,  allow 
of  a  very  diversified  industrial  development  in  Middle  Germany.  In  Upper 
Germany,  or  the  high  mountain  region,  we  find  the  same  symmetry  in  the 
lines  of  the  rivers  as  in  the  north ;  almost  all  the  great  Alpine  streams  flow 
parallel  with  the  Danube.  But  the  majority  of  these  rivers  are  neither 
navigable  nor  available  for  industrial  objects,  and  instead  of  serving  for 
communication,  they  shut  off  one  great  tract  from  another.  The  slow  de- 
velopment, the  simple  peasant  life  of  many  districts,  is  here  determined 
by  the  mountain  and  the  river.  In  the  southeast,  however,  industrial 
activity  spreads  through  Bohemia  towards  Austria,  and  forms  a  sort  of 
balance  to  the  industrial  districts  of  the  Lower  Rhine.  Of  course,  the 


MANATEES   OF   THE   GERMANS.  31 

Southern  Germany  is,  in  very  many  respects,  quite  distinct 
from  Northern  ;  the  commercial  cities  are  altogether  unlike 
those  which  are  the  seats  of  universities  ;  the  small  States  differ 
sensibly  from  the  two  great  monarchies  of  Prussia  and  Aus- 


boundaries  of  these  three  regions  cannot  be  very  strictly  defined  ;  but  an 
approximation  to  the  limits  of  Middle  Germany  may  be  obtained  by  regard- 
ing it  as  a  triangle,  of  which  one  angle  lies  in  Silesia,  another  in  Aix-la- 
Chapelle,  and  a  third  at  Lake  Constance. 

"  This  triple  division  corresponds  with  the  broad  distinctions  of  climate. 
In  the  northern  plains  the  atmosphere  is  damp  and  heavy  ;  in  the  southern 
mountain  region  it  is  dry  and  rare,  and  there  are  abrupt  changes  of  tem- 
perature, sharp  contrasts  between  the  seasons,  and  devastating  storms ; 
but  in  both  these  zones  men  are  hardened  by  conflict  with  the  roughnesses 
of  the  climate.  In  Middle  Germany,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  little  of  this 
struggle;  the  seasons  are  more  equable,  and  the  mild,  soft  air  of  the  val- 
leys tends  to  make  the  inhabitants  luxurious  and  sensitive  to  hardships. 
It  is  only  in  exceptional  mountain  districts  that  one  is  here  reminded  of 
the  rough,  bracing  air  on  the  heights  of  Southern  Germany.  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that,  as  the  air  becomes  gradually  lighter  and  rarer  from  the  North 
German  coast  towards  Upper  Germany,  the  average  of  suicides  regularly 
decreases.  Mecklenburg  has  the  highest  number;  then  Prussia;  while  the 
fewest  suicides  occur  in  Bavaria  and  Austria. 

"  Both  the  northern  and  southern  regions  have  still  a  large  extent  of 
waste  lands,  downs,  morasses,  and  heaths ;  and  to  these  are  added,  in  the 
south,  abundance  of  snow-fields  and  naked  rock;  while  in  Middle  Ger- 
many, culture  has  almost  overspread  the  face  of  the  land,  and  there  are 
no  large  tracts  of  waste.  There  is  the  same  proportion  in  the  distribution 
of  forests.  Again,  in  the  north  we  see  a  monotonous  continuity  of  wheat- 
fields,  potato-grounds,  meadow-lands,  and  vast  heaths,  and  there  is  the 
same  uniformity  of  culture  over  large  surfaces  in  the  southern  table-lands 
and  the  Alpine  pastures.  In  Middle  Germany,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a 
perpetual  variety  of  crops  within  a  short  space ;  the  diversity  of  land  sur- 
face, and  the  corresponding  variety  in  the  species  of  plants,  are  an  invita- 
tion to  the  splitting  up  of  estates,  and  this  again  encourages  to  the  utmost 
the  motley  character  of  the  cultivation. 

"  According  to  this  threefold  division,  it  appears  that  there  are  certain 
features  common  to  North  and  South  Germany  in  which  they  differ  from 
Central  Germany,  and  the  nature  of  this  difference  Eiehl  indicates  by  dis- 
tinguishing the  former  as  Centralized  Lund,  and  the  latter  as  Individualized 
Land  ;  a  distinction  which  is  well  symbolized  by  the  fact,  that  North  and 
South  Germany  possess  the  great  lines  of  railway  which  are  the  medium 
for  the  traffic  of  the  world,  while  Middle  Germany  is  far  richer  in  lines  for 
local  communication,  and  possesses  the  greatest  length  of  railway  within 
the  smallest  space.  Disregarding  superficialities,  the  East  Frieslanders, 
the  Schleswig-Holsteiners,  the  Mecklenburghers,  and  the  Pomeranians, 
are  much  more  nearly  allied  to  the  old  Bavarians,  the  Tyrolese,  and  the 


32  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

tria.  Germany  was  formerly  an  aristocratical  confederation, 
an  empire  witliout  one  common  eentr?.  of  intelligence  and  of 
public  spirit ;  it  did  not  form  a  compact  nation,  and  the  bond 
of  union  was  wanting  to  its  separate  members.  This  division 
of  Germany,  fatal  to  her  political  force,  was  nevertheless  very 
favorable  to  all  the  efforts  of  genius  and  imagination.  In  mat- 
ters of  literary  and  metaphysical  opinion,  there  was  a  sort  of 
gentle  and  peaceful  anarchy,  which  allowed  to  every  man  the 
complete  development  of  his  own  individual  manner  of  per- 
ception. 

As  there  is  no  capital  city  in  which  all  the  good  company  of 
Germany  finds  itself  united,  the  spirit  of  society  exerts  but  lit- 
tle power ;  and  the  empire  of  taste  and  the  arms  of  ridicule 
are  equally  without  influence.  Most  writers  and  reasoners  sit 
down  to  work  in  solitude,  or  surrounded  only  by  a  little  circle 
over  which  they  reign.  They  abandon  themselves,  each  sep- 
arately, to  all  the  impulses  of  an  unrestrained  imagination ; 
and  if  any  traces  are  to  be  found  throughout  Germany  of  the 
ascendency  of  fashion,  it  is  in  the  desire  evinced  by  every  man 
to  show  himself  in  all  respects  different  from  the  rest.  In 
France,  on  the  contrary,  every  man  aspires  to  deserve  what 
Montesquieu  said  of  Voltaire :  II  a  plus  que  personne  Fesprit 


Styrians,  than  any  of  these  are  allied  to  the  Saxons,  the  Thuringians,  or 
the  Khinelanders.  Both  in  North  and  South  Germany  original  races  are  still 
found  in  large  masses,  and  popular  dialects  are  spoken ;  you  still  find  there 
thoroughly  peasant  districts,  thorough  villages,  and  also,  at  great  intervals, 
thorough  cities ;  you  still  find  there  a  sense  of  rank.  In  Middle  Germany, 
on  the  contrary,  the  original  races  are  fused  together,  or  sprinkled  hither 
and  thither;  the  peculiarities  of  the  popular  dialects  are  worn  down  or 
confused  ;  there  is  no  very  strict  line  of  demarkation  between  the  country 
and  the  town  population,  hundreds  of  small  towns  and  large  villages  being 
hardly  distinguishable  in  their  characteristics ;  and  the  sense  of  rank,  as 
part  of  the  organic  structure  of  society,  is  almost  extinguished.  Again, 
both  in  the  north  and  south,  there  is  still  a  strong  ecclesiastical  spirit  in 
the  people,  and  the  Pomeranian  sees  Antichrist  in  the  Pope  as  clearly  as 
the  Tyrolese  sees  him  in  Doctor  Luther ;  while  in  Middle  Germany  the 
confessions  are  mingled  ;  they  exist  peaceably  side  by  side  in  very  narrow 
space,  and  tolerance  or  indifference  has  spread  itself  widely  even  in  the 
popular  mind." — Ed. 


MANNERS    OF   THE    GERMANS.  33 

que  tout  le  monde  a.     The  German  writers  would  yet  more 
willingly  imitate  foreigners  than  their  own  countrymen. 

In  literature,  as  in  politics,  the  Germans  have  too  much  re- 
spect for  foreigners,  and  not  enough  of  national  prejudices.  In 
individuals  it  is  a  virtue,  this  denial  of  self,  and  this  esteem  of 
others ;  but  the  patriotism  of  nations  ought  to  be  selfish.1  The 
pride  of  the  English  serves  powerfully  their  political  existence  ; 
the  good  opinion  which  the  French  entertain  of  themselves  has 
always  contributed  greatly  to  their  ascendance  over  Europe ; 
the  noWe  pride  of  the  Spaniards  formerly  rendered  them  sove- 
reigns of  one  entire  portion  of  the  world.  The  Germans  are 
Saxons,  Prussians,  Bavarians,  Austrians ;  but  the  Germanic  char- 
acter, on  which  the  strength  of  all  should  be  founded,  is  like 
the  land  itself,  parcelled  out  among  so  many  different  masters. 

'-  "  With  the  piirest  identity  of  origin,  the  Germans  have  shown  always 
the  weakest  sentiment  of  nationality.  Descended  from  the  same  ancestors, 
speaking  a  common  language,  nnconquered  by  a  foreign  enemy,  and  once 
the  subjects  of  a  general  government,  they  are  the  only  people  in  Europe 
who  have  passively  allowed  their  national  unity  to  be  broken  down,  and 
submitted,  like  cattle,  to  be  parcelled  and  reparcelled  into  flocks,  as  suited 
the  convenience  of  their  shepherds.  The  same  unpatriotic  apathy  is  be- 
trayed in  their  literary  as  in  their  political  existence.  In  other  countries, 
taste  is  perhaps  too  exclusively  national ;  in  Germany  it  is  certainly  too 
cosmopolite.  Teutonic  admiration  seems,  indeed,  to  be  essentially  centrif- 
ngai ;  and  literary  partialities  have  in  the  Empire  inclined  always  in  favor 
of  the  foreign.  The  Germans  were  long  familiar  with  the  literature  of 
every  other  nation,  before  they  thought  of  cultivating,  or  rather  creating,  a 
literature  of  their  own ;  and  when  this  was  at  last  attempted,  Qdvpa  TUV 
JL-ir6vr<jtv  was  still  the  principle  that  governed  in  the  experiment.  It  was 
essayed,  by  a  process  of  foreign  infusion,  to  elaborate  the  German  tongue 
into  a  vehicle  of  pleasing  communication ;  nor  were  they  contented  to  re- 
verse the  operation,  until  the  project  had  been  stultified  by  its  issue,  and 
the  purest  and  only  all-sufficient  of  the  modern  languages  degraded  into  a 
Babylonish  jargon,  without  a  parallel  in  the  whole  history  of  speech.  A 
counterpart  to  this  overweening  admiration  of  the  strange  and  distant,  is 
the  discreditable  indifference  manifested  by  the  Germans  to  the  noblest 
monuments  of  native  genius.  To  their  eternal  disgrace,  the  works  of  Leib- 
nitz were  left  to  be  collected  by  a  Frenchman ;  while  the  care  denied  by 
his  countrymen  to  the  great  representative  of  German  universality,  was 
lavished,  with  an  eccentric  affection,  on  the  not  more  important  specula- 
tions of  Giordano  Bruno,  Spinoza,  and  Cudworth."  (Sir  Wm.  Hamilton. 
Discussions,  etc.,  p.  204.) — Ed. 

20 


34  MADAME    DE    STAEL'S    GERMANY. 

I  shall  separately  examine  Northern  and  Southern  Germany  ; 
but  will  for  the  present  confine  myself  to  those  reflections 
which  equally  suit  the  whole  nation.  The  Germans  are,  gen- 
erally speaking,  both  sincere  and  faithful ;  they  seldom  forfeit 
their  word,  and  deceit  is  foreign  to  them.  If  this  fault  should 
ever  introduce  itself  into  Germany,  it  could  only  be  through 
the  ambition  of  imitating  foreigners,  of  evincing  an  equal  dex- 
terity, and,  above  all,  of  not  being  duped  by  them ;  but  good 
sense  and  goodness  of  heart  would  soon  bring  the  Germans 
back  to  perceive  that  their  strength  consists  in  their  own  na- 
ture, and  that  the  habit  of  rectitude  renders  us  incapable,  even 
where  we  are  willing,  of  employing  artifice.  In  order  to  reap 
the  fruits  of  immorality,  it  is  necessary  to  be  entirely  light 
armed,  and  not  to  carry  about  you  a  conscience  and  scruples 
which  arrest  you  midway,  and  make  you  feel,  so  much  the 
more  poignantly,  the  regret  of  having  left  the  old  road,  as  it  is 
impossible  for  you  to  advance  boldly  in  the  new. 

It  is,  I  believe,  easy  to  show  that,  without  morality,  all  is 
danger  and  darkness.  Nevertheless  there  has  often  been  ob- 
served among  the  Latin  nations  a  singularly  dexterous  policy 
in  the  art  of  emancipating  themselves  from  every  duty ;  but, 
it  may  be  said,  to  the  glory  of  the  German  nation,  that  she  is 
almost  incapable  of  that  practised  suppleness  which  makes  all 
truths  bend  to  all  interests,  and  sacrifices  every  engagement  to 
every  calculation.  Her  defects,  as  well  as  her  good  qualities, 
subject  her  to  the  honorable  necessity  of  justice. 

The  power  of  labor  and  reflection  is  also  one  of  the  distinc- 
tive traits  of  the  people  of  Germany.  They  are  naturally  a 
literary  and  philosophical  people ;  yet  the  separation  into 
classes,  which  is  more  distinct  in  Germany  than  anywhere  else, 
because  society  does  not  soften  its  gradations,  is  in  some  re- 
spects injurious  to  the  understanding  properly  so  called.  The 
nobles  have  too  few  ideas,  the  men  of  letters  too  little  practice 
in  business.  Understanding  is  a  combination  of  the  knowledge 
of  men  and  things  ;  and  society,  in  which  men  act  without 
object,  and  yet  with  interest,  is  precisely  that  which  best  de- 
velops the  most  opposite  faculties.  It  is  imagination  more 


MANNERS    OF   THE   GERMANS.  35 

than  understanding  that  characterizes  the  Germans.  Jean 
Paul  Richter,  one  of  their  most  distinguished  writers,  lias  said 
that  the  empire  of  the  seas  belonged  to  the  English,  that  of  the 
Land  to  the  French,  and  that  of  the  air  to  the  Germans :  in  fact, 
we  discover  in  Germany  the  necessity  of  a  centre  and  bounds 
to  this  eminent  faculty  of  thought,  which  rises  and  loses  itself 
in  vacuum,  which  penetrates  and  vanishes  in  obscurity,  which 
perishes  by  its  impartiality,  confounds  itself  by  the  force  of 
analysis,  and  stands  in  need  of  certain  faults  to  circumscribe 
its  virtues. 

In  leaving  France,  it  is  difficult  to  grow  accustomed  to  the 
slowness  and  inertness  of  the  German  people ;  they  never 
hasten  to  any  object;  they  find  obstacles  to  all ;  you  hear  "it 
is  impossible"  repeated  a  hundred  times  in  Germany  for  once 
in  France.  When  action  is  necessary,  the  Germans  know  not 
how  to  struggle  with  difficulties,  and  their  respect  for  power 
is  more  owing  to  the  resemblance  between  power  and  destiny 
than  to  any  interested  motive.  The  lower  classes  are  suffi- 
ciently coar°e  in  their  forms  of  proceeding ;  above  all,  when 
any  shock  is  intended  to  their  favorite  habits ;  they  would 
naturally  feel  much  more  than  tho  nobles  that  holy  antipathy 
for  foreign  manners  and  languages,  which  in  all  countries  seems 
to  strengthen  the  national  bond  of  union.  The  offer  of  money 
does  not  alte.»  tl-eir  plan  of  conduct ;  fear  does  not  turn  them 
aside  from  it ;  tLey  are,  in  short,  very  capable  of  that  fixed- 
ness in  all  things,  which  is  an  excellent  pledge  for  morality ; 
for  he  who  is  continually  actuated  by  fear,  and  still  more  by 
hope,  passes  easily  from  one  opinion  to  another,  whenever  his 
interest  requires  it. 

As  we  rise  a  little  above  the  lower  class,  we  easily  perceive 
that  internal  vivacity,  that  poetry  of  the  soul,  which  charac- 
terizes the  Germans.  The  inhabitants  of  town  and  country, 
the  soldiers  and  laborers,  are  all  acquainted  with  music.  It 
has  happened  to  me  to  enter  small  cottages,  blackened  by 
the  smoke  of  tobacco,  and  immediately  to  hear  not  only 
the  mistress  but  the  master  of  the  house  improvising  on 
the  harpsichord,  as  the  Italians  improvise  in  verse.  Ahno.sl 


36  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

everywhere,  on  market-days,  they  have  players  on  wind  iastrn- 
mcnts  placed  in  the  balcony  of  the  town-house,  which  over- 
looks the  public  square  ;  the  peasants  of  the  neighborhood  are 
thus  made  partakers  in  the  soft  enjoyment  of  that  first  of  arts. 
The  scholars  walk  through  the  streets,  on  Sunday,  singing 
psalms  in  chorus.  They  say  that  Luther  often  to:>k  ?,  part  in 
these  choruses  in  early  life.  I  was  at  Eisenach,  a  little  town 
in  Saxony,  one  winter  day,  when  it  was  so  cold  that  the  very 
streets  were  blocked  up  with  snow.  I  saw  a  long  procession 
of  young  people  in  black  cloaks,  walking  through  the  to^n, 
and  celebrating  the  praises  of  God.  They  were  the  only  per- 
sons out  of  doors,  for  the  severity  of  the  frost  had  driven  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  to  their  firesides  ;  and  these  voices,  almost 
equally  harmonious  with  those  of  the  South,  heard  amid  all 
this  rigor  of  the  season,  excited  so  much  the  livelier  emotion. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  town  dared  not  in  the  intense  cold  to 
open  their  windows ;  but  we  could  perceive  behind  the  glasses 
countenances,  sad  or  serene,  young  or  old,  all  receiving  with 
joy  the  religious  consolations  which  this  £wee^  melody  in- 
spired. 

The  poor  Bohemians,  as  they  wander,  followed  by  their 
wives  and  children,  carry  on  their  backs  a  bad  harp,  made  of 
common  wood,  from  which  they  draw  harmonious  music. 
They  play  upon  it  while  they  rest  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  on  the 
high  road,  or  near  the  post-houses,  trying  *,c  awraken  the  atten- 
tion of  travellers  to  the  ambulatory  concert  of  their  little  wan- 
dering family.  In  Austria  the  flocks  are  kept  by  shepherds, 
who  play  charming  airs  on  instruments  at  once  simple  and 
sonorous.  These  airs  agree  perfectly  well  with  the  soft  and 
pensive  impression  produced  by  the  aspect  of  the  country. 

Instrumental  music  is  as  generally  cultivated  throughout 
Germany  as  vocal  music  in  Italy.  Nature  has  done  more  in 
this  respect,  as  in  so  many  others,  for  Italy,  than  for  Germany  ; 
for  instrumental  music  labor  is  necessary,  while  a  southern  sky 
is  eiynjgh  to  create  a  beautiful  voice  :  nevertheless  the  men  of 
the  working  classes  would  never  be  able  to  afford  to  music  the 
time  which  is  necessary  for  learning  it,  if  they  vere  not  en- 


MANNERS    OF   THE   GERMANS.  37 

dowed  with  an  organization  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  acquire- 
ment. Those  people,  who  are  musicians  by  nature,  receive 
through  the  medium  of  harmony,  sensations  and  ideas  which 
their  confined  situations  and  vulgar  occupations  could  never 
procure  for  them  from  any  other  source. 

The  female  peasants  and  servants,  who  have  not  money 
enough  to  spend  in  dress,  ornament  their  heads  and  arms  with 
a  few  flowers,  that  imagination  may  at  least  have  some  part  in 
their  attire  :  those  who  are  a  little  more  rich,  wear  on  holidays 
a  cap  of  gold  stuff,  in  sufficiently  bad  taste,  which  affords  a 
strange  contrast  to  the  simplicity  of  the  rest  of  their  costume ; 
but  this  cap,  which  their  mothers  also  wore  before  them,  re- 
calls ancient  manners ;  and  the  dress  of  ceremony,  with  which 
the  lower  classes  of  women  pay  respect  to  the  Sunday,  has 
something  solemn  in  it  which  interests  one  in  their  favor. 

We  must  also  like  the  Germans  for  the  good-will  mani- 
fested in  their  respectful  deference  and  formal  politeness, 
which  foreigners  have  so  often  turned  into  ridicule.  They 
might  easily  have  substituted  a  cold  and  indifferent  deport- 
ment for  that  grace  and  elegance  which  they  are  accused  of 
being  unable  to  reach ;  disdain  always  silences  ridicule,  for  it 
is  principally  upon  useless  efforts  that  ridicule  attaches  itself ; 
but  benevolent  characters  choose  rather  to  expose  themselves 
to  pleasantry,  than  to  preserve  themselves  from  it  by  that 
haughty  and  restrained  air,  which  it  is  so  easy  for  any  person 
to  assume. 

In  Germany,  we  are  continually  struck  by  the  contrast  which 
exists  between  sentiments  and  habits,  talents  and  tastes  :  civil- 
ization and  nature  seem  to  be  not  yet  sufficiently  amalgamated 
together.  Sometimes  the  most  ingenuous  of  men  are  very 
affected  in  their  expressions  and  countenance,  as  if  they  had 
something  to  conceal ;  sometimes,  on  the  other  hand,  gentle- 
ness of  soul  does  not  prevent  rudeness  in  manners ;  frequently 
even  this  contradiction  goes  still  further,  and  weakness  of  char- 
acter shows  itself  through  the  veil  of  harshness  in  language 
and  demeanor.  Enthusiasm  for  the  arts  and  poetry  is  joined 
to  habits  even  low  and  vulgar  in  social  life.  There  is  no  coun- 


38  MADAME    DE    STAEL*S    GEUMAXT. 

try  where  men  of  letters,  and  young  men  studying  at  the 
universities,  are  better  acquainted  with  the  ancient  languages 
and  with  antiquity ;  yet  there  is  none  in  which  superannuated 
customs  more  generally  exist  even  at  the  present  day.  The 
recollections  of  Greece,  the  taste  for  the  fine  arts,  seem  to  have 
reached  them  through  the  medium  of  correspondence ;  but 
feudal  institutions,  and  the  ancient  customs  of  the  German 
nation,  are  always  held  in  honor  among  them,  even  though, 
unhappily  for  the  military  power  of  the  country,  they  no  longer 
possess  the  same  strength. 

There  is  no  assemblage  more  whimsical  than  that  displayed 
in  the  military  aspect  of  Germany  :  soldiers  at  every  step,  and 
all  leading  a  sort  of  domestic  life.1  They  are  as  much  afraid 
of  fatigue  and  of  the  inclemency  of  the  air,  as  if  the  whole 
nation  were  composed  of  merchants  and  men  of  letters ;  and 
yet  all  their  institutions  tend,  and  must  necessarily  tend,  to 
inspire  the  people  with  military  habits.  When  the  inhabitants 
of  the  North  brave  the  inconveniences  of  their  climate,  thev 
harden  themselves  in  a  wonderful  manner  against  all  sorts  ot 
evil ;  the  Russian  soldier  is  a  proof  of  this.  But  where  the 
climate  is  only  half  rigorous,  where  it  is  still  possible  to  guard 
against  the  severity  of  the  heavens  by  domestic  precautions, 
these  very  precautions  render  them  more  alive  to  the  physical 
sufferings  of  war. 

Stoves,  beer,  and  the  smoke  of  tobacco,  surround  all  the 
common  people  of  Germany  with  a  thick  and  hot  atmosphere, 
from  which  they  are  never  inclined  to  escape.  This  atmos- 
phere is  injurious  to  activity,  which  is  of  no  less  importance  in 
war  than  courage  itself;  resolutions  are  slow,  discouragement 
is  easy,  because  an  existence,  void  of  pleasure  in  general,  in- 
spires no  great  confidence  in  the  gifts  of  fortune.  The  habit 


1  Riehl  tells  the  story  of  a  "  peasant  youth,  out  of  the  poorest  and  re- 
motest region  of  the  Westerwald.  enlisted  as  a  recruit,  at  Weilburg  in 
Nassau.  The  lad,  having  never  in  his  life  slept  in  a  bed.  when  he  had  to 
get  into  one  for  the  first  time  began  to  cry  like  a  child ;  and  he  deserted 
twice  because  he  could  not  reconcile  himself  to  sleeping  in  a  bed,  and  to 
the  '  fine  '  life  of  the  barracks."— Ed. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  GERMANS.  39 

of  a  peaceable  and  regular  mode  of  life  is  so  bad  a  preparation 
for  the  multiplied  chances  of  hazard,  that  even  death,  coming 
in  a  regular  way,  appears  preferable  to  a  life  of  adventure. 

The  demarcation  of  classes,  much  more  positive  in  Germany 
than  it  used  to  be  in  France,  naturally  produced  the  annihila- 
tion of  military  spirit  among  the  lower  orders ;  this  demarca- 
tion has  in  fact  nothing  offensive  in  it ;  for  I  repeat,  a  sort  of 
natural  goodness  mixes  itself  with  every  thing  in  Germany, 
even  with  aristocratical  pride ;  and  the  differences  of  rank  are 
reduced  to  some  court  privileges,  to  some  assemblies  which  do 
not  afford  sufficient  pleasure  to  deserve  envy  :  nothing  is  bit- 
ter, under  whatever  aspect  contemplated,  when  society,  and 
ridicule,  which  is  the  offspring  of  society,  is  without  influence. 
Men  cannot  really  wound  their  very  souls,  except  by  falsehood 
or  mockery  :  in  a  country  of  seriousness  and  truth,  justice  and 
happiness  will  always  be  met  with.  But  the  barrier  which 
separated,  in  Germany,  the  nobles  from  the  citizens,  necessarily 
rendered  the  whole  nation  less  warlike. 

Imagination,  which  is  the  ruling  quality  of  the  world  of  arts 
and  letters  in  Germany,  inspires  the  fear  of  danger,  if  this 
natural  emotion  is  not  combated  by  the  ascendency  of  opinion 
and  the  exaltation  of  honor.  In  France,  even  in  its  ancient 
state,  the  taste  for  war  was  universal ;  and  the  common  people 
willingly  risked  life,  as  a  means  of  agitating  it  and  diminishing 
the  sense  of  its  weight.  It  is  a  question  of  importance  to  know 
whether  the  domestic  affections,  the  habit  of  reflection,  the  very 
gentleness  of  soul,  do  not  conduce  to  the  fear  of  death ;  but  if 
the  whole  strength  of  a  State  consists  in  its  military  spirit,  it  is 
of  consequence  to  examine  what  are  the  causes  that  have 
weakened  this  spirit  in  the  German  nation. 

Three  leading  motives  usually  incite  men  to  fight, — the  pa- 
triotic love  of  liberty,  the  enthusiasm  of  glory,  and  religious 
fanaticism.  There  can  be  no  great  patriotism  in  an  empire 
divided  for  so  many  ages,  where  Germans  fought  against  Ger- 
mans, almost  always  instigated  by  some  foreign  impulse :  the 
Icve  of  glory  is  scarcely  awake  where  there  is  no  centre,  no 
society.  That  species  of  impartiality,  the  very  excess  of  jus- 


40  MADAME  DP:  STAEL'S  GKKMANY. 

tice,  wtich  characterizes  the  Germans,  renders  them  much 
more  susceptible  of  being  inflamed  with  abstract  sentiments, 
than  of  the  real  interests  of  life ;  the  general  who  loses  a  bat- 
tle, is  more  sure  of  indulgence  than  he  who  gains  one  is  of 
applause ;  there  is  not  enough  difference  between  success  and 
reverse,  in  the  opinions  of  such  a  people,  to  excite  any  very 
lively  ambition. 

Religion,  in  Germany,  exists  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  heart ; 
but  it  possesses  there  a  character  of  meditation  and  independ- 
ence, which  breathes  nothing  of  the  energy  necessary  to  exclu- 
sive sentiments.  The  same  independence  of  opinions,  individ- 
uals, and  States,  so  prejudicial  to  the  strength  of  the  Germanic 
empire,  is  to  be  found  also  in  their  religion  :  a  great  number 
of  different  sects  divide  Germany  between  them ;  and  the 
Catholic  religion  itself,  which,  in  its  very  nature,  exercises  a 
uniform  and  strict  discipline,  is  nevertheless  interpreted  by 
every  man  after  his  own  fashion.  The  political  and  social 
bond  of  the  people,  a  general  government,  a  general  worship, 
the  same  laws,  the  same  interests,  a  classical  literature,  a  ruling 
opinion,  nothing  of  all  this  exists  among  the  Germans ;  each 
individual  State  is  the  more  independent,  each  individual  science 
the  better  cultivated ;  but  the  whole  nation  is  so  subdivided, 
that  one  cannot  tell  to  wThat  part  of  the  empire  this  very  name 
of  nation  ought  to  be  granted. 

The  love  of  liberty  is  not  developed  among  the  Germans ; 
they  have  not  learned,  either  by  enjoyment  or  by  privation, 
the  value  which  may  be  attached  to  it.  There  are  many  ex- 
amples of  federative  governments,  which  give  to  the  public 
spirit  as  much  force  as  even  a  united  administration,  but  these 
are  the  associations  of  equal  States  and  free  citizens.  The  Ger- 
man confederacy  was  composed  of  strong  and  weak,  citizen 
and  serf,  of  rivals,  and  even  of  enemies ;  they  were  old  existing 
elements,  combined  by  circumstances  and  respected  by  men. 

The  nation  is  persevering  and  just ;  and  its  equity  and  loy- 
alty secure  it  against  injury  from  any  institution,  however 
vicious.  Louis  of  Bavaria,  when  he  took  the  command  of  the 
army,  intrusted  to  Frederic  the  Fair,  his  rival,  and  at  that 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  GERMANS.  -il 

time  his  prisoner,  the  administration  of  his  States  ;  and  he 
had  not  to  repent  of  this  confidence,  which  in  those  days 
caused  no  astonishment.  With  such  virtues,  they  never 
found  the  ill  consequences  of  the  weakness,  or  even  the  com- 
plication of  the  laws  ;  the  probity  of  individuals  supplied  their 
defects. 

The  very  independence  which  the  Germans  enjoyed,  in 
Almost  all  respects,  rendered  them  indifferent  to  liberty  /'inde- 
pendence is  a  possession,  liberty  its  security )  and  on  this 
very  account  nobody  in  Germany  was  molested  either  in  his 
rights  or  his  enjoyments  :  they  could  not  feel  the  want  of  such 
.  an  order  of  things  as  might  secure  them  in  the  possession  of 
this  happiness.  The  imperial  tribunals  promised  a  sure  though 
slow  redress  of  every  act  of  arbitrary  power ;  and  the  modera- 
tion of  the  sovereigns,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  governed,  seldom 
gave  room  for  any  appeals  to  their  interference  :  people,  there- 
fore, could  not  imagine  that  they  stood  in  need  of  constitutional 
fortifications,  when  they  saw  no  aggressors. 

One  has  reason  to  be  astonished,  that  the  feudal  code  should 
have  subsisted  almost  unaltered  among  a  people  so  enlight- 
ened ;  but  as,  in  the  execution  of  these  laws,  so  defective  in 
themselves,  there  was  never  any  injustice,  the  equality  with, 
which  they  were  applied  made  amends  for  their  inequality  in 
principle.  Old  charters,  the  ancient  privileges  of  every  city — 
all  that  family  history,  which  constitutes  the  charm  and  glory 
of  little  States,  were  singularly  dear  to  the  Germans ;  but  they 
neglected  that  great  national  might,  which  it  was  so  important 
to  have  founded  among  the  colossal  States  of  Europe. 

The  Germans,  with  some  few  exceptions,  are  hardly  capable 
of  succeeding  in  any  thing  which  requires  address  and  dex- 
terity ;  every  thing  molests  and  embarrasses  them,  and  they 
have  as  much  need  of  method  in  action  as  of  independence  in 
ideas.  The  French,  on  the  contrary,  consider  actions  with  all 
the  freedom  of  art,  and  ideas  with  all  the  bondage  of  custom. 
The  Germans,  who  cannot  endure  the  yoke  of  rules  in  litera- 
ture, require  every  thing  to  be  traced  out  before  them  in  the 
line  of  their  conduct.  They  know  not  how  to  treat  with  men ; 


42  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

and  the  less  occasion  is  given  them  in  this  respect  to  decide 
for  themselves,  the  better  they  are  satisfied. 

Political  institutions  can  alone  form  the  character  of  a  na- 
tion ;  the  nature  of  the  government  of  Germany  was  almost  in 
opposition  to  the  philosophical  illumination  of  the  Germans. 
From  thence  it  follows,  that  they  join  the  greatest  boldness  a. 
thought  to  the  most  obedient  character.  The  pre-eminence  of 
the  military  States,  and  the  distinctions  of  rank,  have  accustom- 
ed them  to  the  most  exact  submission  in  the  relations  of  social 
life.  Obedience,  with  them,  is  regularity,  not  servility ;  they 
are  as  scrupulous  in  the  execution  of  the  orders  they  receive. 
as  if  every  order  became  a  duty. 

The  enlightened  men  of  Germany  dispute  vehemently 
among  themselves  the  dominion  of  speculations,  and  will  suffer 
no  shackles  in  this  department ;  but  they  give  up,  without  dif- 
ficulty, all  that  is  real  in  life  to  the  powerful  of  the  earth. 
"This  reality,  which  they  so  much  despise,  finds  purchasers, 
however,  who  in  the  end  avail  themselves  of  their  acquisition 
to  carry  trouble  and  constraint  into  the  empire  of  the  imagina- 
tion itself."1  The  understanding  and  the  character  of  the  Ger- 
mans appear  to  have  no  communication  togettur:  the  one 
cannot  suffer  any  limits,  the  other  is  subject  to  every  yoke ; 
the  one  is  very  enterprising,  the  other  very  timid ;  iu  short, 
the  illumination  of  the  one  seldom  gives  strength  to  the  other, 
and  this  is  easily  explained.  The  extension  of  knowledge  in 
modern  times  only  serves  to  weaken  the  character,  when  it  is 
not  strengthened  by  the  habit  of  business  and  the  exercise  of 
the  will.  To  see  all,  and  comprehend  all,  is  a  great  cause  of 
uncertainty ;  and  the  energy  of  action  develops  itself  only  in 
those  free  and  powerful  countries  where  patriotic  sentiments 
are  to  the  soul  like  blood  to  the  veins,  and  grow  cold  only 
with  the  extinction  of  life  itself.* 


1  A  passage  suppressed  by  the  censors. 

a  I  Lave  no  need  of  saying  that  it  is  England  which  I  wished  to  point 
out  by  these  words ;  but  when  proper  names  are  not  pronounced,  the  cen- 
sors, in  general,  who  are  men  of  knowledge,  take  a  pleasure  in  not  com- 
prehending. It  is  not  the  same  with  the  police  ;  the  police  has  a  sort  of 


THE    WOMEN.  43 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF     THE     WOMEN. 

NATURE  and  society  give  to  women  a  habit  of  endurance ; 
and  I  think  it  can  hardly  be  denied  that,  in  our  days,  they  are 
generally  worthier  of  moral  esteem  than  the  men.  At  an 
epoch  when  selfishness  is  the  prevailing  evil,  the  men,  to  whom 
all  positive  interests  are  related,  must  necessarily  have  less 
generosity,  less  sensibility,  than  the  women.  These  last  are 
attached  to  life  only  by  the  ties  of  the  heart ;  and  even  when 
they  lose  themselves,  it  is  by  sentiment  that  they  are  led  away  : 
their  selfishness  is  extended  to  a  double  object,  while  that  of 
man  has  himself  only  for  its  end.  Homage  is  rendered  to 
them  according  to  the  affections  which  they  inspire  ;  but  those 
which  they  bestow  are  almost  always  sacrifices.  The  most 
beautiful  of  virtues,  self-devotion,  is  their  enjoyment  and  their 
destiny ;  no  happiness  can  exist  for  them  but  by  the  reflection 
of  another's  glory  and  prosperity ;  in  short,  to  live  independ- 
ently of  self,  whether  by  ideas  or  by  sentiments,  or,  above  all, 
by  virtues,  gives  to  the  soul  an  habitual  feeling  of  elevation. 

In  those  countries  where  men  are  called  upon  by  political 
institutions  to  the  exercise  of  all  the  military  and  civil  virtues 
which  are  inspired  by  patriotism,  they  recover  the  superiority 
which  belongs  to  them ;  they  reassume  with  dignity  their 
rights,  as  masters  of  the  world ;  but  when  they  are  condemned, 
in  whatever  measure,  to  idleness  or  to  slavery,  they  fall  so 
much  the  lower  as  they  ought  to  rise  more  high.  The  destiny 
of  women  always  remains  the  same ;  it  is  their  soul  alone 
which  creates  it;  political  circumstances  have  no  influence 

instinct  that  is  really  extraordinary,  in  prejudice  of  all  liberal  ideas,  under 
whatever  form  they  present  themselves ;  and  traces  out,  with  the  sagacity 
of  a  gocd  hound,  all  that  might  awaken  in  the  minds  of  the  French  their 
aucisnt  love  for  light  and  liberty. 


44  MAPAMTC    DK    STAF.I/S    GERMANY. 

upon  it.  When  men  are  ignorant  or  unable  to  employ  their 
lives  worthily  and  nobly,  Nature  revenges  herself  upon  them 
for  the  very  gifts  which  they  have  received  from  her ;  the  ac- 
tivity of  the  body  contributes  only  to  the  sloth  of  the  mind; 
the  strength  of  soul  degenerates  into  coarseness ;  the  day 
is  consumed  in  vulgar  sports  and  exercises,  horses,  the  chase, 
or  entertainments  which  might  be  suitable  enough  in  the  way 
of  relaxation,  but  brutalize  as  occupations.  Women,  the  while, 
cultivate  their  understanding ;  and  sentiment  and  reflection  pre- 
serve in  their  souls  the  image  of  all  that  is  noble  and  beautiful. 

The  German  women  have  a  charm  exclusively  their  own — 
a  touching  voice,  fair  hair,  a  dazzling  complexion  ;  they  are 
modest,  but  less  timid  than  Englishwomen  ;  one  sees  that  they 
have  been  less  accustomed  to  meet  with  their  superiors  among 
men,  and  that  they  have  besides  less  to  apprehend  from  the 
severe  censures  of  the  public.  They  endeavor  to  please  by 
their  sensibility,  to  interest  by  their  imagination ;  the  language 
of  poetry  and  the  fine  arts  are  familiar  to  them  ;  they  coquet 
with  enthusiasm,  as  they  do  in  France  with  wit  and  pleasantry. 
That  perfect  loyalty,  which  distinguishes  the  German  character, 
renders  love  less  dangerous  for  the  happiness  of  women  ;  and, 
perhaps,  they  admit  the  advances  of  this  sentiment  with  the 
more  confidence,  because  it  is  invested  with  romantic  colors,  and 
disdain  and  infidelity  are  less  to  be  dreaded  there  than  elsewhere. 

Love  is  a  religion  in  Germany,  but  a  poetical  religion,  which 
tolerates  too  easily  all  that  sensibility  can  excuse.  It  cannot 
be  denied,  that  the  facility  of  divorce  in  the  Protestant  States 
is  prejudicial  to  the  sacredness  of  marriage.  They  change 
husbands  with  as  little  difficulty  as  if  they  were  arranging  the 
incidents  of  a  drama ;  the  good-nature  common  both  to  men 
and  women  is  the  reason  that  so  little  bitterness  of  spirit  ever 
accompanies  these  easy  ruptures ;  and,  as  the  Germans  are  en- 
dowed with  more  imagination  than  real  passion,  the  most  ex- 
'travagant  events  take  place  with  singular  tranquillity ;  never- 
theless, it  is  thus  that  manners  and  character  lose  every  thing 
like  consistency ;  the  spirit  of  paradox  shakes  the  most  sacred 
institutions,  and  there  are  no  fixed  rules  upon  any  subject. 


THE  woin-:x.  45 

One  may  fairly  laugli  at  the  ridiculous  airs  of  some  German 
women,  who  are  continually  exalting  themselves  even  to  a 
pitch  of  affectation,  and  who  sacrifice  to  their  pretty  softnesses 
of  expression,  all  that  is  marked  and  striking  in  mind  and 
character ;  they  are  not  open,  even  though  they  are  not  false  ; 
they  only  see  and  judge  of  nothing  correctly,  and  real  events 
pass  like  a  phantasmagoria  before  their  eyes.  Even  when 
they  take  it  into  their  heads  to  be  light  and  capricious,  they 
still  retain  a  tincture  of  that  sentimentality  which  is  held  in  so 
Ligh  honor  in  their  country.  A  German  woman  said  one  day, 
with  a  melancholy  expression,"!  know  not  wherefore,  but 
those  who  are  absent  pass  away  from  my  soul."  A  French 
woman  would  have  rendered  this  idea  with  more  gayety,  but 
it  would  have  been  fundamentally  the  same. 

Notwithstanding  these  affectations,  which  form  only  the 
exception,  there  are  among  the  women  of  Germany  numbers 
whose  sentiments  are  true  and  manners  simple.  Their  careful 
education,  and  the  purity  of  soul  which  is  natural  to  them, 
render  the  dominion  which  they  exercise  gentle  and  abiding ; 
they  inspire  you  from  day  to  day  with  a  stronger  interest  for 
all  that  is  great  and  generous,  with  more  of  confidence  in  all 
noble  hopes,  and  they  know  how  to  repel  that  desolating  irony 
•which  breathes  a  death-chill  over  all  the  enjoyments  of  the 
heart.  Nevertheless,  we  seldom  find  among  them  that  quick- 
ness of  apprehension,  which  animates  conversation,  and  sets 
every  idea  in  motion ;  this  sort  of  pleasure  is  scarcely  to  be 
met  with  anywhere  out  of  the  most  lively  and  the  most  witty 
societies  of  Paris.  The  chosen  company  of  a  French  metropo- 
lis can  alone  confer  this  rare  delight ;  elsewhere,  we  generally 
find  only  eloquence  in  public,  or  tranquil  pleasure  in  familiar 
life.  Conversation,  as  a  talent,  exists  in  France  alone;  in  all 
other  countries  it  answers  the  purposes  of  politeness,  of  argu- 
ment, or  of  friendly  intercourse.  In  France,  it  is  an  art  to 
which  the  imagination  and  the  soul  are  no  doubt  very  neces- 
sary, but  which  possesses,  besides  these,  certain  secrets,  where, 
by  the  absence  of  both  may  be  supplied. 


46  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF    THE     INFLUENCE    OF    THE     SPIRIT    OF    CHIVALRY    ON     LOVE 
AND    HONOR, 

CHIVALRY  is  to  modern,  what  the  heroic  age  was  to  ancient 
times ;  to  it  all  the  noble  recollections  of  the  nations  of  Europe 
are  attached.  At  all  the  great  epochs  of  history,  men  have 
embraced  some  sort  of  enthusiastic  sentiment,  as  a  universal 
principle  of  action.  Those  whom  they  called  heroes,  in  the 
most  distant  ages,  had  for  their  object  to  civilize  the  earth ; 
the  confused  traditions,  which  represent  them  to  us  as  sub- 
duing the  monsters  of  the  forests,  bear,  no  doubt,  an  allusion 
to  the  first  dangers  which  menaced  society  at  its  birth,  and 
from  which  it  was  preserved  by  the  supports  of  its  yet  new 
organization.  Then  came  the  enthusiasm  of  patriotism,  and 
inspired  all  that  was  great  and  brilliant  in  the  actions  of  Greece 
and  Rome :  this  enthusiasm  became  weaker  when  there  was 
no  longer  a  country  to  love ;  and,  a  few  centuries  later,  chiv- 
alry succeeded  to  it.  Chivalry  consisted  in  the  defence  of  the 
weak,  in  the  loyalty  of  valor,  in  the  contempt  of  deceit,  in  that 
Christian  charity  which  endeavored  to  introduce  humanity 
even  in  war ;  in  short,  in  all  those  sentiments  which  substi- 
tuted the  reverence  of  honor  for  the  ferocious  spirit  of  arms. 
It  is  among  the  northern  nations  that  chivalry  had  its  birth  ;l 

i  The  origin  of  chivalry  has  often  been  traced  to  a  custom  of  the  Ger- 
mans, described  by  Tacitus : 

"  The  Germans  transact  no  business,  public  or  private,  without  being 
armed ;  but  it  is  not  customary  for  any  person  to  assume  arms  till  the 
State  has  approved  his  ability  to  use  them.  Then,  in  the  midst  of  the 
assembly,  either  one  of  the  chiefs,  or  the  father,  or  a  relation,  equips  the 
youth  with  a  shield  and  javelin.  These  are  to  them  the  manly  gown ;  this 
is  the  first  honor  conferred  on  youth :  before  this  they  are  considered  as 
part  of  a  household;  afterwards,  of  the  State.  The  dignity  of  chieftain  is 


INFLUENCE   OF   THE    SPIRIT   OF   CIIITALEY.  4-  < 

Imt  in  the  south  of  France  that  it  was  embellished  by  the 
charm  of  poetry  and  love.  The  Germans  had,  in  all  times, 
treated  women  with  respect,  but  the  French  were  the  first 
that  tried  to  please  them ;  the  Germans  also  had  their  chant- 
ers of  love  (Minnesinger),  but  nothing  that  could  be  compared 
to  our  Trouveres  and  Troubadours ;  and  it  is  to  this  source, 
perhaps,  that  we  must  refer  a  species  of  literature  strictly 
national.  The  spirit  of  northern  mythology  had  much  more 
resemblance1  to  Christianity  than  the  Paganism  of  the  ancient 
Gauls;  yet  is  there  no  country  where  Christians  have  been 
better  knights,  or  knights  better  Christians,  than  in  France. 

The  Crusades  brought  together  the  gentlemen  of  all  coun- 
tries, and  created  out  of  the  spirit  of  chivalry  a  sort  of  Euro- 
pean patriotism,  which  filled  every  soul  with  the  same  senti- 
ment. The  feudal  government,  that  political  institution  so 
gloomy  and  severe,  but  which,  in  some  respects,  consolidated 
the  spirit  of  chivalry,  by  investing  it  with  the  character  of 
love ;  the  feudal  government,  I  say,  has  continued  in  Germany 
even  to  our  own  days.  It  was  overthrown  in  France  by  Car- 
dinal Richelieu  ;  and,  from  that  epoch  to  the  Revolution,  the 
French  have  been  altogether  destitute  of  any  source  of  enthu- 
siasm. I  know  it  will  be  said  that  the  love  of  their  king  was 
such ;  but,  supposing  it  possible  that  this  sentiment  could 

bestowed  even  on  mere  lads,  -whose  descent  is  eminently  illustrious,  or 
whose  fathers  have  performed  signal  services  to  the  public;  they  are 
associated,  however,  with  those  of  mature  strength,  who  have  already  been 
declared  capable  of  service ;  nor  do  they  blush  to  be  seen  in  the  rank  of 
companions.  For  the  state  of  companionship  itself  has  its  several  degrees, 
determined  by  the  judgment  of  him  whom  they  follow ;  and  there  is  a 
great  emulation  among  the  companions,  which  shall  possess  the  highest 
place  in  the  favor  of  their  chief;  and  among  the  chiefs,  which  shall  excel 
Ln  the  number  and  valor  of  his  companions.  It  is  their  dignity,  their 
strength,  to  be  always  surrounded  with  a  large  body  of  select  youth — an 
ornament  in  peace,  a  bulwark  in  war.  And  not  in  his  own  country  alone, 
but  among  the  neighboring  States,  the  fame  and  glory  of  each  chief  con- 
sists in  being  distinguished  for  the  number  and  bravery  of  his  companions. 
Such  chiefs  are  courted  by  embassies,  distinguished  by  presents,  and  often, 
by  their  reputation  alone,  decide  a  war." — (Tacitus,  (fermania,  vii.) — Ed, 
*  Or,  rather,  being  less  barbarous,  it  was  less  opposed  to  Christianity. 
-Ed. 


4S  MADAME    PE    STAEL's    GKBMAXY. 

extend  to  a  whole  nation,  still  it  is  confined  so  entirely  to  the 
mere  person  of  the  sovereign,  that  during  the  administrations 
of  the  Regent  and  of  Louis  XV,  it  would  have  been  difficult, 
I  imagine,  for  the  French  to  have  derived  any  thing  great  from 
its  influence.  The  spirit  of  chivalry,  which  still  emitted  some 
sparkles  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV,  was  extinguished  with 
him,  and  succeeded,  according  to  a  very  lively  and  sensible 
historian,1  by  the  spirit  of  Fatuity,  which  is  entirely  opposite 
to  it.  Instead  of  protecting  women,  Fatuity  seeks  to  destroy 
them ;  instead  of  despising  artifice,  she  employs  it  against 
those  feeble  beings  whom  she  prides  herself  in  deceiving ;  and 
she  substitutes  the  profanation  of  love  in  the  place  of  its  wor- 
ship. 

Even  courage  itself,  which  formerly  served  as  the  pledge  of 
loyalty,  became  nothing  better  than  a  brilliant  mode  of  evad- 
ing its  chain ;  for  it  was  no  longer  necessary  to  be  true,  but  / 
only  to  kill  in  a  duel  the  man  who  accuses  you  of  being  other  f 
wise ;  and  the  empire  of  society  in  the  great  world  made 
almost  all  the  virtues  of  chivalry  disappear.  France  then 
found  herself  without  any  sort  of  enthusiastic  impulse  what- 
ever ;  and  as  such  impulse  is  necessary  to  prevent  the  corrup- 
tion and  dissolution  of  nations,  it  is  doubtless  this  natural 
necessity  whic1?.,  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  turned  every 
mind  towards  the  love  of  liberty. 

It  seems,  then,  that  the  philosophical  progress  of  the  human 
3  ace  should  be  divided  into  four  different  periods :  the  heroic 
times,  which  gave  birth  to  civilization  ;  patriotism,  which  con-    ' 
stituted  the  glory  of  antiquity ;  chivalry,  which  was  the  mili-    j 
tary  religion  of  Europe ;  and  the  love  of  liberty,  the  history    , 
of  which  dates  its  origin  from  the  epoch  of  the  Reformation. 

Germany,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  of  its  courts,  which 
were  inspired  with  the  emulation  of  imitating  France,  had  not 
been  tainted  by  the  fatuity,  immorality,  and  incredulity,  which, 


1  M.  de  Cretelle.  Two  of  the  name  have  been  distinguished  in  letters- 
Pierre-Louis  and  Charles-Joseph.  The  latter  is  here  alluded  to.  He 
published  his  Precis  Historique  de  la  Revolution  Frantaise  in  1801-1806. — Ed 


INFLUENCE   OF   THE    SPIRIT   OF    CHIVALRY.  49 

since  the  time  of  the  Regency,  had  debased  the  natural  char- 
acter of  Frenchmen.  Feudality  still  retained  among  the  Ger- 
mans the  maxims  of  chivalry :  they  fought  duels,  indeed, 
seldomer  than  in  France,  because  the  Germanic  nation  is  not 
so  lively  as  the  French,  and  because  all  ranks  of  people  do 
not,  as  in  France,  participate  in  the  sentiment  of  bravery  ;  but 
public  opinion  was  generally  much  more  severe  with  regard  to 
every  thing  connected  with  probity.  If  a  man  had,  in  any 
manner,  been  wanting  to  the  laws  of  morality,  ten  duels  a  day 
would  never  have  set  him  up  again  in  any  person's  esteem. 
Many  men  of  good  company  have  been  seen  in  France,  who, 
when  accused  of  some  blamable  action,  have  answered,  "  It 
may  be  bad  enough  ;  but  nobody  at  least  will  dare  to  say  so 
before  my  face."  Nothing  can  imply  a  more  utter  depravation 
of  morals  ;  for  what  would  become  of  human  society,  if  it  was 
only  necessary  for  men  to  kill  each  other,  to  acquire  the  right 
of  doing  one  another,  in  other  respects,  all  the  mischief  possi- 
ble ;  to  break  their  word,  to  lie,  provided  nobody  dared  to  say, 
"  You  have  lied ;"  in  short,  to  separate  loyalty  from  bravery, 
and  transform  courage  into  a  mode  of  obtaining  social  im- 
punity ? 

Since  the  extinction  of  the  spirit  of  chivalry  in  France; 
since  she  possessed  no  longer  a  Godefroi,  a  Saint  Louis,  or  a 
Bayard,  to  protect  weakness,  and  hold  themselves  bound  by  a 
promise  as  by  the  most  indissoluble  chain,  I  will  venture  to 
say,  contrary  to  the  received  opinion,  that  France  has  perhaps 
been  that  country  of  the  world  in  which  women  are  the  least 
happy  at  heart.  France  was  called  the  Paradise  of  women,  on 
account  of  the  great  share  of  liberty  which  the  sex  enjoyed 
there ;  but  this  very  liberty  arose  from  the  facility  with  which 
men  detached  themselves  from  them.  The  Turk,  who  shuts 
up  his  wife,  proves  at  least  by  that  very  conduct  how  necessary 
she  is  to  his  happiness ;  the  man  of  gallantry,  a  character  of 
which  the  last  century  furnished  us  with  so  many  examples, 
selects  women  for  the  victims  of  his  vanity ;  and  this  vanity 
consists  not  only  in  seducing,  but  in  afterwards  abandoning 
them.  He  must,  in  order  to  justify  it,  be  able  to  declare,  in 

VOL.  I.— 8 


50  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

phrases  light  and  irreprehensible  in  themselves,  that  such  a 
woman  has  loved  him,  but  that  he  no  longer  cares  about  her. 
"  My  self-love  tells  me,  let  her  die  of  chagrin"  said  a  friend  of 
the  Baron  de  Bezenval ;  and  this  very  friend  appeared  to  him 
an  object  of  deep  regret,  when  a  premature  death  prevented 
him  from  the  accomplishment  of  this  laudable  design.  One 
grows  tired  of  every  thing,  my  angel,  writes  M.  de  la  Clos,  in  a 
novel  which  makes  one  shudder  at  the  refinements  of  immo- 
rality which  it  displays.  In  short,  at  this  very  period,  when 
they  pretended  that  love  reigned  in  France,  it  seems  to  me 
that  gallantry,  if  1  may  use  the  expression,  really  placed 
women  out  of  the  protection  of  the  l^w.  When  their  mo- 
mentary reign  was  over,  there  was  for  them  neither  gene- 
rosity nor  gratitude — not  even  pity.  They  counterfeited  the 
accents  of  love  to  make  them  fall  into  the  snare,  like  the 
crocodile,  which  imitates  the  voices  of  children  to  entrap  their 
mothers. 

Louis  XIV,  so  vaunted  for  his  chivalrous  gallantry,  did  he 
not  show  himself  the  most  hard-hearted  of  men  in  his  conduct 
towards  the  very  woman  by  whom  he  was  most  beloved  of  all, 
Madame  de  la  Valliere  ?  The  details  which  are  given  of  that 
transaction  in  the  Memoires  de  Madame  are  frightful.  He 
pierced  with  grief  the  unfortunate  heart  which  breathed  only 
for  him,  and  twenty  years  of  tears,  at  the  foot  of  the  cross, 
could  hardly  cicatrize  the  wounds  which  the  cruel  disdain  of 
the  monarch  had  inflicted.  Nothing  is  so  barbarous  as  vanity ; 
and  as  society,  bon-ton,  fashion,  success,  all  put  this  vanity  sin- 
gularly in  play,  there  is  no  country  where  the  happiness  of 
women  is  in  greater  danger  than  that  in  which  every  thing 
depends  upon  what  is  called  opinion,  and  in  which  everybody 
learns  of  others  what  it  is  good  taste  to  feel. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  women  have  ended  by  taking 
part  in  the  immorality  which  destroyed  their  own  true  empire ; 
they  have  learned  to  lessen  their  sufferings  by  becoming  worth- 
less. Nevertheless,  with  some  few  exceptions,  the  virtue  of 
women  always  depends  on  the  conduct  of  men.  The  pre- 
tended lightness  of  women  is  the  consequence  of  the  fear  they 


INFLUENCE   OF   THE   SPIRIT   OF   CHIVALRY.  51 

entertain  of  being  abandoned  ;  they  rush  into  shame  from  the 
fear  of  outrage. 

Love  is  a  much  more  serious  quality  in  Germany  than  in 
France.  Poetry,  the  fine  arts,  even  philosophy  and  religion, 
have  made  this  sentiment  an  object  of  earthly  adoration,  which 
sheds  a  noble  charm  over  life.  Germany  was  not  infested,  like 
France,  with  licentious  writings,  which  circulated  among  all 
classes  of  people,  and  effected  the  destruction  of  sentiment 
among  the  high,  and  of  morality  among  the  low.  It  must  be 
allowed,  nevertheless,  that  the  Germans  have  more  imagina- 
tion than  sensibility ;  and  their  uprightness  is  the  only  pledge 
for  their  constancy.  The  French,  in  general,  respect  positive 
duties ;  the  Germans  think  themselves  less  bound  by  duty  than 
affection.  What  we  have  said  respecting  the  facility  of  divorce 
affords  a  proof  of  this ;  love  is,  with  them,  more  sacred  than 
marriage.  It  is  the  effect  of  an  honorable  delicacy,  no  doubt, 
that  they  are  above  all  things  faithful  to  promises  which  the 
law  does  not  warrant;  but  those  which  are  warranted  by 
law  are  nevertheless  of  greater  importance  to  the  interests  of 
society. 

The  spirit  of  chivalry  still  reigns  among  the  Germans,  thus 
to  speak,  in  a  passive  sense ;  they  are  incapable  of  deceit,  and 
their  integrity  discovers  itself  in  all  the  intimate  relations  of 
life ;  but  that  severe  energy,  which  imposed  so  many  sacrifices 
on  men,  so  many  virtues  on  women,  and  rendered  the  whole 
of  life  one  holy  exercise,  governed  by  the  same  prevailing  sen- 
timent, that  chivalrous  energy  of  the  times  of  old,  has  left  in 
Germany  only  an  impression  long  since  passed  away.  Hence- 
forward nothing  great  will  ever  be  accomplished  there,  except 
by  the  liberal  impulse  which,  throughout  Europe,  has  suc- 
ceeded to  chivalry. 


52  MADAME   DE   STAEL»S   GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

OF    SOUTHERN    GERMAN. 

IT  was  pretty  generally  understood,  that  literature  existed 
in  the  north  of  Germany  alone,  and  that  the  inhabitants  of  the 
south  abandoned  themselves  to  the  enjoyments  of  sense,  while 
those  of  the  north  tasted  more  exclusively  those  of  the  soul. 
Many  men  of  genius  have  been  born  in  the  South,  but  they 
have  been  formed  in  the  North.  Near  the  coasts  of  the  Baltic 
we  find  the  noblest  establishments,  the  most  distinguished  men 
of  science  and  letters ;  and  from  Weimar  to  Konigsberg,  from 
Konigsberg  to  Copenhagen,  fogs  and  frosts  appear  to  be  the 
natural  element  of  men  of  a  vigorous  and  profound  imagination. 

No  country  stands  so  much  as  Germany  in  need  of  the  occu- 
pations of  literature ;  for  society  there  affording  little  charms, 
and  individuals,  for  the  most  part,  wanting  that  grace  and 
vivacity  which  are  inspired  by  nature  in  warm  climates,  it  fol- 
lows that  the  Germans  are  agreeable  only  when  they  are  supe- 
rior in  mind,  and  that  they  want  genius  to  be  witty. 

Franconia,  Swabia,  and  Bavaria,  before  the  illustrious  estab- 
lishment of  the  present  academy  at  Munich,  were  countries 
singularly  dull  and- monotonous :  no  arts,  with  the  exception 
of  music ;  no  literature ;  a  rude  accent,  which  lent  itself  with 
difficulty  to  the  pronunciation  of  the  languages  of  Latin  origin; 
no  society ;  large  reunions,  which  looked  more  Jike  ceremonies 
than  parties  of  pleasure ;  obsequious  politeness  to  an  inelegant 
aristocracy ;  goodness  and  integrity  in  every  class ;  but  a  sort 
of  simpering  stiffness,  which  is  the  reverse  at  once  both  of  ease 
and  dignity.  One  should  not  therefore  be  surprised  at  the 
criticisms  and  pleasantries  which  have  been  passed  on  German 
tediousness.  The  literary  cities  are  the  only  objects  of  real 
interest,  in  a  country  where  society  is  nothing,  and  nature  very 
little. 


AUSTRIA.  53 

Letters  might  perhaps  have  been  cultivated  in  the  south  of 
Germany  with  as  much  success  as  in  the  north,  if  the  sovereigns 
had  ever  properly  interested  themselves  in  the  advancement  of 
them ;  nevertheless,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  temperate 
climates  are  more  favorable  to  society  than  to  poetry.  When 
the  climate  is  neither  inclement  nor  beautiful,  when  people 
li,re  with  nothing  either  to  fear  or  to  hope  from  the  heavens, 
the  positive  interests  of  existence  become  almost  the  only  occu- 
pation of  the  mind ;  both  the  delights  of  the  South,  and  the 
rigors  of  the  North,  have  stronger  hold  over  the  imagination. 
Whether  we  struggle  against  nature,  or  intoxicate  ourselves 
with  her  gifts,  the  power  of  the  creation  is  in  both  cases  equally 
strong,  and  awakens  in  us  the  sentiment  of  the  fine  arts,  or  the 
instinct  of  the  soul's  mysteries. 

Southern  Germany,  temperate  in  every  sense,  maintains  itself 
in  a  monotonous  state  of  well-being,  singularly  prejudicial  to 
the  activity  of  affairs  as  well  as  of  thought.  The  most  lively 
desire  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  peaceful  and  fertile  country  is, 
that  they  may  continue  to  exist  as  they  exist  at  present ;  and 
what  can  this  only  desire  produce  ?  It  is  not  even  sufficient 
for  the  preservation  of  that  with  which  they  are  satisfied. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

OF   AUSTRIA.1 

THE  literati  of  Northern  Germany  have  accused  Austria  of 
neglecting  letters  and  sciences ;  they  have  even  greatly  exag- 
gerated the  degree  of  restraint  imposed  there  by  the  censure 
of  the  press.  If  Austria  has  produced  no  great  men  in  the  lit- 
erary career,  it  is  to  be  attributed  not  so  much  to  constraint  as 
to  the  want  of  emulation. 

1  This  chapter  was  writtej  in  the  year  1808. 


54:  MADAME    DE    STAEI/6    GERMANY. 

It  is,  a  country  so  calm,  a  country  in  which  competence  is  so 
easily  secured  to  all  classes  of  its  inhabitants,  that  they  think 
but  little  of  intellectual  enjoyments.  They  do  more  for  the 
sake  of  duty  than  of  fame;  the  rewards  of  public  opinion  are 
so  poor,  and  its  punishments  so  slight,  that,  without  the  mo- 
tive of  conscience,  there  would  be  no  incitement  to  vigorous 
action  in  any  sense. 

Military  exploits  must  be  the  chief  interest  of  the  inhabitants 
of  a  monarchy,  which  has  rendered  itself  illustrious  by  contin- 
ual wars ;  and  yet  the  Austrian  nation  had  so  abandoned  itself 
to  the  repose  and  the  pleasures  of  life,  that  even  public  events 
made  no  great  noise  till  the  moment  arrived  of  their  calling 
forth  the  sentiment  of  patriotism ;  and  even  this  sentiment  is 
of  a  tranquil  nature  in  a  country  where  there  is  nothing  but 
happiness.  Many  excellent  things  are  to  be  found  in  Austria, 
but  few  men  really  of  a  superior  order ;  for  it  is  there  of  no 
great  service  to  be  reckoned  more  able  than  another ;  one  is 
not  envied  for  it,  but  forgotten,  which  is  yet  more  discourag- 
ing. Ambition  perseveres  in  the  desire  of  acquiring  power ; 
genius  flags  of  itself;  genius,  in  the  midst  of  society,  is  a  pain, 
an  internal  fever,  which  would  require  to  be  treated  as  real 
disease,  if  the  rewards  of  glory  did  not  soften  the  sufferings  it 
produces. 

In  Austria,  and  all  other  parts  of  Germany,  the  lawyers 
plead  in  writing,  never  viva  voce.  The  preachers  are  followed 
because  men  observe  the  practical  duties  of  religion  ;  but  they 
do  not  attract  by  their  eloquence.  The  theatres  are  much  neg- 
lected ;  above  all,  the  tragic  theatre.  Administration  is  con- 
ducted with  great  wisdom  and  justice ;  but  there  is  so  much 
method  in  all  things,  that  the  influence  of  individuals  is  scarce- 
ly perceptible.  Business  is  conducted  in  a  certain  numerical 
order,  which  nothing  can  derange ;  it  is  decided  by  invariable 
rules,  and  transacted  in  profound  silence ;  this  silence  is  not 
the  effect  of  terror  ;  for  what  is  there  to  be  feared  in  a  country, 
where  the  virtues  of  the  sovereign  and  the  principles  of  equity 
govern  all  things  ?  but  the  profound  repose  of  intellects,  as  of 
souls,  deprives  human  speech  of  all  its  interests.  Neither  r.y 


AUSTRIA.  55 

crime  nor  by  genius,  by  intolerance  nor  by  enthusiasm,  by  pas- 
sion nor  by  heroism,  is  existence  either  disturbed  or  exalted. 
The  Austrian  Cabinet  during  the  last  century  -was  considered 
as  very  adroit  in  politics, — a  quality  which  little  agrees  with 
the  German  character  in  general ;  but  men  often  mistake  for 
profound  policy  that  which  is  only  the  alternative  between 
ambition  and  weakness.  History  almost  always  attributes  to 
individuals,  as  to  governments,  more  combination  of  plans  than 
really  existed. 

Austria,  concentrating  within  herself  people  so  different  from 
each  other,  as  the  Bohemians,  Hungarians,  &c.,  wants  that 
unity  which  is  so  essential  to  a  monarchy  :  nevertheless,  the 
great  moderation  of  her  rulers  has  for  a  long  time  past  pro- 
duced a  general  bond  of  union  out  of  the  attachment  to  one  in- 
dividual. The  emperor  of  Germany  was  at  the  same  time 
sovereign  over  his  own  dominions  and  the  constitutional  head 
of  the  empire.  In  this  latter  character  he  had  to  manage  dif- 
ferent interests  and  established  laws,  and  derived  from  his  im- 
perial magistracy  a  habit  of  justice  and  prudence,  which  he 
transferred  from  them  to  the  administration  of  his  hereditary 
States.  The  nations  of  Bohemia  and  Hungary,  the  Tyrolese 
and  the  Flemings,  who  formerly  constituted  the  monarchy, 
have  more  natural  vivacity  than  the  genuine  Anstrians :  these 
last  employ  themselves  incessantly  in  the  act  of  moderating  in- 
stead of  that  of  encouraging.  An  equitable  government,  a  fer- 
tile soil,  a  wise  and  wealthy  nation,  all  contributed  to  teach 
them,  that  for  their  well-being  it  was  only  necessary  to  main- 
tain their  existing  condition,  and  that  they  had  no  need  what- 
ever for  the  extraordinary  assistance  of  superior  talents.  In 
peaceable  times,  indeed,  they  may  be  dispensed  with  ;  but 
what  can  we  do  without  them  in  the  grand  struggles  of  em- 
pires ? 

The  spirit  of  Catholicism,  which  was  uppermost  at  Vienna, 
though  always  with  moderation,  had  nevertheless  constantly 
during  the  reign  of  Maria  Theresa,  repelled  what  was  called 
the  progress  of  light  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Theu  came 
Joseph  the  Second,  who  lavished  ah7  these  lights  on  a  country 


56  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

not  yet  prepared  either  for  the  good  or  the  evil  which  they 
were  qualified  to  produce.  He  succeeded,  for  the  moment,  in 
the  object  of  his  wishes,  because  throughout  Austria  he  met 
with  no  active  emotion  either  in  favor  of,  or  contrary  to  his 
desires  ;  but,  "  after  his  death,  nothing  remained  of  all  his  es- 
tablishments," '  because  nothing  can  last  but  that  which  ad- 
vances by  degrees. 

Industry,  good  living,  and  domestic  enjoyments,  are  the 
principal  interests  of  Austria;  notwithstanding  the  glory  which 
she  acquired  by  the  perseverance  and  valor  of  her  armies,  the 
military  spirit  has  not  really  penetrated  all  classes  of  the  nation. 
Her  armies  are,  for  her,  so  many  moving  fortifications,  but  there 
is  no  greater  emulation  in  this  than  in  other  professions ;  the 
most  honorable  officers  are  at  the  same  time  the  bravest ;  and 
this  reflects  upon  them  so  much  the  more  credit,  as  a  brilliant 
and  rapid  advancement  is  seldom  the  consequence  of  their 
efforts.  In  Austria  they  almost  scruple  to  show  favor  to  supe- 
rior men,  and  it  sometimes  seems  as  if  government  wished  to 
push  equality  even  further  than  nature  itself,  and  to  treat  talent 
and  mediocrity  with  the  same  undistinguishing  impartiality. 

The  absence  of  emulation  has,  indeed,  one  advantage — it  al- 
lays vanity ;  but  often  pride  itself  partakes  of  it ;  and,  in  the 
end,  there  remains  only  a  sort  of  easy  arrogance,  which  is  sat- 
isfied with  the  exterior  of  all  things. 

I  think  that  it  was  also  a  bad  system,  that  of  forbidding  the 
importation  of  foreign  books.  If  it  were  possible  to  preserve 
to  a  country  the  energy  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  cen- 
turies by  defending  it  from  the  writings  of  the  eighteenth,  this 
might  perhaps  be  a  great  advantage  ;  but  as  it  is  absolutely 
necessary,  that  the  opinions  and  the  discoveries  of  Europe 
must  penetrate  into  the  midst  of  a  monarchy,  which  is  itself 
in  the  centre  of  Europe,  it  is  a  disadvantage  to  let  them  reach 
it  only  by  halves  ;  for  the  worst  writings  are  those  which  are 
most  sure  to  make  their  way.  Books,  filled  with  immoral 
pleasantries  and  selfish  principles,  amuse  the  vulgar,  and  al- 

»  Suppressed  by  the  censors. 


AUSTRIA.  57 

ways  fall  into  their  hands ;  while  prohibitory  laws  are  abso- 
lutely effective  only  against  those  philosophical  works,  which 
tend  to  elevate  the  mind,  and  enlarge  the  ideas.  The  con- 
straint which  these  laws  impose  is  precisely  that  which  is 
wanting  to  favor  the  indolence  of  the  understanding,  but  not 
to  preserve  the  innocence  of  the  heart. 

In  a  country  where  all  emotion  is  of  slow  growth ;  in  a 
country  where  every  thing  inspires  a  deep  tranquillity,  the 
slightest  obstacle  is  enough  to  deter  men  from  acting  or  writ- 
ing, or  even  (if  it  is  required)  from  thinking.  What  can  we 
have  better  than  happiness  ?  they  say.  It  is  necessary  to  un- 
derstand, however,  what  they  mean  by  the  word.  Does  hap- 
pineso  consist  in  the  faculties  we  develop,  or  in  those  we  sup- 
press ?  No  doubt  a  government  is  always  worthy  of  esteem, 
so  long  as  it  does  not  abuse  its  power,  and  never  sacrifices 
justice  to  its  interest ;  but  the  happiness  of  sleep  is  deceitful ; 
great  reverses  may  occur  to  disturb  it ;  and  we  ought  not  to 
let  the  steeds  stand  still  for  the  sake  of  holding  the  reins  more 
gently  and  easily. 

A  nation  may  easily  content  itself  with  those  common  bless- 
ings of  life,  repose  and  ease ;  and  superficial  thinkers  will  pre- 
tend, that  the  whole  social  art  is  confined  to  securing  these 
blessings  to  the  people.  Yet  are  more  noble  gifts  necessary  to 
inspire  the  feeling  of  patriotism.  This  feeling  is  combined  of 
tho  remembrances  which  great  men  have  left  behind  them,  the 
admiration  inspired  by  the  chefs-d'oeuvre  of  national  genius, 
and  lastly,  the  love  which  is  felt  for  the  institutions,  the  relig- 
ion, and  the  glory  of  our  country.  These  riches  of  the  soul 
are  the  only  riches  that  a  foreign  yoke  could  tear  away ;  if 
therefore  material  enjoyments  were  the  only  objects  of  thought, 
might  not  the  same  soil  always  produce  them,  let  who  will  be 
its  masters  ? 

They  believed  in  Austria,  during  the  last  century,  that  the 
cultivation  of  letters  would  tend  to  enfeeble  the  military  spirit; 
but  they  were  deceived.  Rodolph  of  Habsburg1  untied  from 

1  Near  the  right  bank  of  the  Aar,  in  the  Canton  of  Aargou,  Switzerland, 
stands  the  village  of  Habsburg.  There  may  be  seen  the  ruins  of  »  castlo 


58  MADAME    DE   STAEL's    GEEMANT. 

his  neck  the  golden  chain  which  he  wore,  to  decorate  a  then 
celebrated  poet.  Maximilian  dictated  the  poem  which  he 
caused  to  be  written.  Charles  the  Fifth  knew,  and  cultivated, 
almost  all  languages.  Most  of  the  thrones  of  Europe  were 
formerly  filled  by  sovereigns  well  informed  in  all  kinds  of 
learning,  and  who  discovered  in  literary  acquirements  a  new 
source  of  mental  grandeur.  Neither  learning  nor  the  sciences 
will  ever  hurt  the  energy  of  character.  Eloquence  renders 
men  more  brave,  and  courage  renders  them  more  eloquent ; 
every  thing  that  makes  the  heart  beat  in  unison  with  a  gener- 
ous sentiment,  doubles  the  true  strength  of  man,  his  will :  but 
that  systematic  selfishness,  in  which  a  man  sometimes  compre- 
hends his  family  as  an  appendage  of  himself,  but  that  philoso- 
phy which  is  merely  vulgar  at  bottom,  however  elegant  in 
appearance,  which  leads  to  the  contempt  of  every  thing  that 
is  called  illusion,  that  is,  of  self-devotion  and  enthusiasm, — this 
is  the  sort  of  illumination  most  to  be  dreaded  for  the  virtues 
of  a  nation ;  this,  nevertheless,  is  what  no  censors  of  the  press 
can  ever  expel  from  a  country  surrounded  by  the  atmosphere 
of  the  eighteenth  century  :  we  can  never  escape  from  what  is 
bad  and  hurtful  in  books,  but  by  freely  admitting  from  all 
quarters  whatever  they  contain  of  greatness  and  liberality. 

The  representation  of  "  Don  Carlos"  was  forbidden  at  Vien- 
na, because  they  would  not  tolerate  his  love  for  Elizabeth.  In 
Schiller's  "Joan  of  Arc,"  Agnes  Sorel  was  made  the  lawful 
wife  of  Charles  the  Seventh.  The  public  library  was  forbidden 
to  let  the  "  Esprit  des  Lois"  be  read ;  and  while  all  this  con- 
straint was  practised,  the  romances  of  Crebillon  circulated  in 
everybody's  hands,  licentious  works  found  entrance,  and  seri- 
ous ones  alone  were  suppn-ssed. 

The  mischief  of  bad  books  is  only  to  be  corrected  by  good 
ones ;  the  bad  consequences  of  enlightenment  are  only  avoided 
by  rendering  the  enlightenment  more  complete.  There  are 
two  roads  to  every  thing — to  retrench  that  which  is  danger- 


which  was  the  original  seat  of  the  royal  family  of  Austria.    Hapsbourg, 
the  usual  orthography,  is  erroneous. — Ed. 


VIENNA.  50 

ous,  or  to  give  new  strength  to  resist  it.  The  latter  is  the  only 
method  that  suits  the  times  in  which  we  live ;  ignorance  can- 
not now  have  innocence  for  its  companion,  and  therefore  can 
only  do  mischief.  So  many  words  have  been  spoken,  so  many 
sophisms  repeated,  that  it  is  necessary  to  know  much,  in  order 
to  judge  rightly  ;  and  the  times  are  passed  when  men  confined 
their  ideas  to  the  patrimony  of  their  fathers.  We  must  think, 
then,  not  in  what  manner  to  repel  the  introduction  of  light, 
but  how  to  render  it  complete,  so  that  its  broken  rays  may  not 
present  false  colors.  A  government  must  not  pretend  to  keep 
a  great  nation  in  ignorance  of  the  spirit  which  governs  the 
age ;  this  spirit  contains  the  elements  of  strength  and  great- 
ness, which  may  be  employed  with  success,  when  men  are  not 
afraid  boldly  to  meet  every  question  that  presents  itself:  they 
will  then  find,  in  eternal  truths,  resources  against  transitory 
errors,  and  in  liberty  itself,  the  support  of  order  and  the  aug- 
mentation of  power. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

VIENNA. 

VIENNA  is  situated  in  a  plain,  surrounded  by  picturesque 
hills.  The  Danube,  which  passes  through  and  encircles  it, 
divides  itself  into  several  branches,  forming  many  pleasant 
islets ;  but  this  river  loses  its  own  dignity  in  so  many  wind- 
ings, and  fails  to  produce  the  impression  which  its  ancient 
renown  promises.  Vienna  is  an  old  town,  small  enough  in 
itself,  but  begirt  with  spacious  suburbs.  It  is  pretended  that 
the  city,  surrounded  by  its  fortifications,  is  not  more  extensive 
now  than  it  was  at  the  time  when  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion1  was 

1  Richard  was  arrested  near  Friesach,  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from 
Vienna,  on  the  road  to  Venice ;  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  ho  was  im- 
prisoned at  the  castle  of  Dfirrenstein,  on  the  frontier  between  Styria  and 
Carinthia,  at  the  entrance  of  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Olcza.— Ed. 


60  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

imprisoned  near  its  gates.  The  streets  are  as  narrow  as  those 
in  Italy  ;  the  palaces  recall,  in  some  degree,  those  of  Florence ; 
in  short,  nothing  there  resembles  the  rest  of  Germany,  except 
a  few  Gothic  edifices,  which  bring  back  the  middle  ages  to  the 
imagination. 

The  first  of  these  edifices  is  the  tower  of  St.  Stephen,  which, 
rises  above  all  the  other  churches  of  Vienna,  and  reigns  majes- 
tically over  the  good  and  peaceful  city,  whose  generations  and 
glories  it  has  seen  pass  away.  It  took  two  centuries,  they 
say,  to  finish  this  tower,  begun  in  1100;1  the  whole  Austrian 
history  is  in  some  manner  connected  with  it.  No  building 
can  be  so  patriotic  as  a  church  ;  in  that  alone  all  classes  of  the 
nation  are  assembled, — that  alone  brings  to  the  recollection 
not  merely  public  events,  but  the  secret  thoughts  and  inward 
affections  which  both  chiefs  and  people  have  carried  into  its 
sanctuary.  The  temple  of  the  divinity  seems  present,  like  God 
himself,  to  ages  passed  away. 

The  monument  of  Prince  Eugene  is  the  only  one  that  has 
been,  for  some  time  past,  erected  in  this  church ;  he  there  lies 
waiting  for  other  heroes.  As  I  approached  it,  I  saw  a  notice 
affixed  to  one  of  its  pillars,  that  a  young  woman  begged  of 
those  who  should  read  this  paper  to  pray  for  her  during  her 
sickness.  The  name  of  this  young  woman  was  not  given  ;  it 
was  some  unfortunate  being,  addressing  herself  to  beings  un- 
known, not  for  their  alms,  but  for  their  prayers ;  and  all  this 
passed  by  the  side  of  the  illustrious  dead,  who  had  himself, 
perhaps,  compassion  on  the  unhappy  living.  It  is  a  pious  cus- 
tom among  the  Catholics,  and  one  which  we  ought  to  imitate, 
to  leave  the  churches  always  open ;  there  are  so  many  mo- 
ments in  which  we  feel  the  want  of  such  an  asylum  ;  and  never 
do  we  enter  it  without  feeling  an  emotion  which  does  good  to 

»  "  The  South,  Tower,  begun  in  1359,  and  carried  to  two  thirds  its  pres- 
ent height,  by  an  architect  named  George  Hauser,  was  completed  in  1423 
by  Anton  Pilgram.  It  is  a  masterpiece  of  Gothic  architecture,  diminish- 
ing gradually  from  its  base  to  its  summit  in  regularly  retreating  arches  and 
buttresses.  It  is  four  hundred  and  forty-four  English  feet  high." — (Mur- 
ray's Hand-look  for  Southern  Germany,  p.  198.) — Ed. 


VIENNA.  dl 

the  soul,  and  restores  it,  as  by  a  holy  ablution,  to  strength  and 
purity. 

There  is  no  great  city  without  its  public  building,  its  prom- 
enade, or  some  other  wonder  of  art  or  of  nature,  to  which  the 
recollections  of  infancy  attach  themselves ;  and  I  think  that 
the  Prater  must  possess  a  charm  of  this  description  for  the 
inhabitants  of  Vienna.  Nowhere  do  we  find,  so  near  the  capi- 
tal, a  public  walk  so  rich  in  the  beauties  at  once  of  rude  and 
ornamented  nature.  A  majestic  forest  extends  to  the  banks  of 
the  Danube ;  herds  of  deer  are  seen  from  afar  passing  through 
the  meadow ;  they  return  every  morning,  and  fly  away  every 
evening,  when  the  influx  of  company  disturbs  their  solitude. 
A  spectacle,  seen  at  Paris  only  three  times  a  year,  on  the  road 
to  Longchamp,1  is  renewed  every  day,  during  the  fine  season, 
at  Vienna.  This  is  an  Italian  custom — the  daily  promenade 
at  the  same  hour.  Such  regularity  would  be  impracticable  in 
a  country  where  pleasures  are  so  diversified  as  at  Paris ;  but 
the  Viennese,  from  whatever  cause,  would  find  it  difficult  to 
relinquish  the  habit  of  it.  It  must  be  agreed  that  it  forms  a 
most  striking  coup  cTceil,  the  sight  of  a  whole  nation  of  citizens 
assembled  under  the  shade  of  magnificent  trees,  on  a  turf  kept 
ever  verdant  by  the  waters  of  the  Danube.  The  people  of 
fashion  in  carriages,  those  of  the  lower  orders  on  foot,  meet 
there  every  evening.2  In  this  wise  country,  even  pleasures  are 
looked  upon  in  the  light  of  duties,  and  they  have  this  advan- 
tage— that  they  never  grow  tedious,  however  uniform.  The 
people  preserve  as  much  regularity  in  dissipation  as  in  busi- 
ness, and  waste  their  time  as  methodically  as  they  employ  it. 

1  The  annual  promenade  de  Longchamp  takes  place  in  the  Champs  Ely- 
ee'es  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  on  the  Wednesday.  Thursday,  and  Friday 
of  Passion  Week.— Ed. 

2  "  The  Prater,  the  Hyde  Park  of  Vienna,  consists  of  a  series  of  low  and 
partly  wooded  islands,  formed  by  arms  of  the  Danube,  which  separate  from 
the  main  tmnk  to  rejoin  it  lower  down.     The  entrance  to  it  is  situated  at 
the  extremity  of  the  street  called  Jagerzeile.     Here  there  is  an  open  circu- 
lar space,  from  which  branch  out  six  alleys  or  avenues.    Close  to  the  first 
alley  is  the  Terminus  of  the  Northern  Railroad — Kaiser  Ferdinand's  Nord- 
bahn— extending  to  Brunn.    The  second,  on  the  right  (Hauptallee),  is  th« 


62  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

Tf  you  enter  one  of  the  redoubts  where  balls  are  given  to  the 
citizens  on  holidays,  you  will  behold  men  and  women  gravely 
performing,  opposite  to  each  other,  the  steps  of  a  minuet,'  of 


most  frequented,  and  leads  to  the  Panorama,  the  Circus,  and  the  coffee 
houses,  the  resort  of  the  better  classes,  round  which  they  sit  under  the 
shade  in  the  open  air,  and  take  their  tea  or  coifee.  At  the  end  of  this  alley 
is  a  sort  of  pavilion,  called  the  Lusthaus,  close  to  an  arm  of  the  Danube, 
commanding  pleasing  prospects  through  the  trees.  This  building  forms 
the  boundary  of '  the  drive  ;'  carnages  turn  at  this  point,  and,  in  the  sum- 
mer season,  they  are  often  so  numerous  as  to  form  an  unbroken  line  from 
St.  Stephen's  Place  in  the  city  up  to  this  pavilion. 

"  Upon  Easter  Monday,  the  great  day  for  visiting  the  Prater,  no  less 
than  twenty  thousand  persons  collect  here,  and  all  the  new  equipages  and 
liveries  are  then  displayed  for  the  first  time.  It  is  the  Longchamps  of 
Vienna.  Paris,  however,  can  hardly  match  the  splendor  of  the  Prater; 
and,  except  in  London,  such  a  display  is  probably  nowhere  to  be  seen.  It 
is  like  the  ring  in  Hyde  Park,  with  this  difference,  that  the  humble  fiacre 
is  admitted  by  the  side  of  the  princely  four-in-hand ;  and  not  unfrequently 
the  emperor's  ambling  coursers  are  stopped  by  the  clumsy  hackney-coach- 
man, who  has  cut  into  the  line  immediately  before  him.  Thus,  amid  all 
the  display  of  coats-of-anns,  with  quarterings  innumerable,  of  crowns  and 
coronets,  scarlet  and  gold-laced  liveries,  Hungarian  lacqueys  in  dolmans 
(the  hussar  dress),  belted  Bohemian  Jagers,  with  swords  at  their  Rides  and 
streaming  feathers  in  their  cocked  hats,  there  is  far  less  aristocratic  exclu- 
siveness  than  in  England. 

"He  who  confines  himself  to  the  drive,  however,  has  seen  but  half  of 
the  Prater,  and  that  not  the  most  amusing  or  characteristic  portion.  A 
few  steps  behind  the  coffee-houses,  the  Prater  of  the  great  world  ends  and 
that  of  the  common  people  begins.  It  is  called  the  Wurstl  Prater,  proba- 
bly from  the  quantity  of  sausages  (wurste)  which  are  constantly  smoking 
and  being  consumed  in  it.  On  Sundays  and  holidays  it  has  all  the  appear- 
ance of  a  great  fair.  As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  under  the  trees  and  over 
the  greensward,  appears  one  great  encampment  of  sutlers'  booths  and 
huts.  The  smoke  is  constantly  ascending  from  these  rustic  kitchens,  while 
long  rows  of  tables  and  benches,  never  empty  of  guests,  or  bare  of  beer- 
jugs  and  wine-bottles,  are  spread  under  the  shade.  Shows  and  theatres, 
mountebanks,  jugglers,  punchinellos,  rope-dancing,  swings,  and  skittles, 
are  the  allurements  which  entice  the  holiday  folks  on  every  side.  But  in 
order  to  form  any  tolerable  notion  of  the  scene — the  laughter,  the  joviality, 
the  songs  and  the  dances,  the  perpetual  strains  of  music  playing  to  the 
restless  measure  of  the  waltz,  must  be  taken  into  consideration." — (Hand- 
book for  Southern  Germany,  p.  217.) — Ed. 

1  The  waltz  has  now  taken  the  place  of  the  minuet ;  but  the  spirit  of  the 
people  has  not  changed.  "We  have  heard  more  than  once,  at  Vienna, 
Englishmen  and  Americans  exclaim,  "How  conscientiously  these  people 
dance  I"— Ed. 


VIENNA.  63 

which  they  have  imposed  on  themselves  the  amusement ;  the 
crowd  often  separates  a  couple  while  dancing,  and  yet  each 
persists,  as  if  they  were  dancing  to  acquit  their  consciences ; 
each  moves  alone,  to  right  and  left,  forwards  and  backwards, 
•without  caring  about  the  other,  who  is  figuring  all  the  while 
with  equal  conscientiousness ;  now  and  then,  only,  they  utter 
a  little  exclamation  of  joy,  and  then  immediately  return  to  the 
serious  discharge  of  their  pleasure. 

It  is  above  all  on  the  Prater  that  one  is  struck  with  the  ease 
and  prosperity  of  the  people  of  Vienna.  This  city  has  the 
reputation  of  consuming  more  victuals  than  any  other  place  of 
an  equal  population ;  and  this  species  of  superiority,  a  little 
vulgar,  is  not  contested.  One  sees  whole  families  of  citizens 
and  artificers,  setting  off  at  five  in  the  evening  for  the  Prater, 
there  to  take  a  sort  of  rural  refreshment,  equally  substantial 
with  a  dinner  elsewhere,  and  the  money  which  they  can  afford 
to  lay  out  upon  it  proves  how  laborious  they  are,  and  under 
how  mild  a  government1  they  live. 

Tens  of  thousands  return  at  night,  leading  by  the  hand  their 
wives  and  children ;  no  disorder,  no  quarrelling  disturbs  all 
this  multitude,  whose  voice  is  hardly  heard,  so  silent  is  their 
joy!  This  silence,  nevertheless,  does  not  proceed  from  any 
melancholy  disposition  of  the  soul ;  it  is  rather  a  certain  phys- 
ical happiness,  which  induces  men,  in  the  south  of  Germany, 
to  ruminate  on  their  sensations,  as  in  the  north  on  their  ideas. 
The  vegetative  existence  of  the  south  of  Germany  bears  some 
analogy  to  the  contemplative  existence  of  the  north  :  in  each, 
there  is  repose,  indolence,  and  reflection. 

If  you  could  imagine  an  equally  numerous  assembly  of  Pa- 
risians met  together  in  the  same  place,  the  air  would  sparkle 
with  bon  mots,  pleasantries,  and  disputes ;  never  can  a  French- 
man enjoy  any  pleasure  in  which  his  self-love  would  not  in 
some  manner  find  itself  a  place. 

Noblemen  of  rank  take  their  promenade  on  horses,  or  in 

1  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  Austrian  government  is  oppressive 
only  in  &  political  sense. — Ed. 


64  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

carriages  of  the  greatest  magnificence  and  good  taste  ;  all  their 
amusement  consists  in  bowing,  in  an  alley  of  the  Prater,  to 
those  whom  they  have  just  left  in  a  drawing-room ;  but  the 
diversity  of  objects  renders  it  impossible  to  pursue  any  train  o* 
reflection,  and  the  greater  number  of  men  take  a  pleasure  in 
thus  dissipating  those  reflections  which  trouble  them.  These 
grandees  of  Vienna,  the  most  illustrious  and  the  most  wealthy4 
in  Europe,  abuse  none  of  the  advantages  they  possess ;  they 
allow  the  humblest  hackney-coaches  to  stop  their  brilliant 
equipages.  The  emperor  and  his  brothers  even  quietly  keep 
their  place  in  the  string,  and  choose  to  be  considered,  in  their 
amusements,  as  private  individuals ;  they  make  use  of  their 
privileges  only  when  they  fulfil  their  duties.  In  the  midst  of 
the  crowd  you  often  meet  with  Oriental,  Hungarian,  and  Polish 
costumes,  which  enliven  the  imagination ;  and  harmonious 
bands  of  music,  at  intervals,  give  to  all  this  assemblage  the  air 
of  a  peaceable  fete,  in  which  everybody  enjoys  himself  without 
being  troubled  about  his  neighbor. 

You  never  meet  a  beggar  at  these  promenades ;  none  are  to 
be  seen  in  Vienna ;  the  charitable  establishments  there  are 
regulated  with  great  order  and  liberality ;  private  and  public 
benevolence  is  directed  with  a  great  spirit  of  justice,  and  the 
people  themselves  having  in  general  more  industry  and  com- 
mercial ability  than  in  the  rest  of  Germany,  each  man  regu- 
larly pursues  his  own  individual  destiny.  There  are  few  in- 
stances in  Austria  of  crimes  deserving  death  ;  every  thing,  in 
short,  in  this  country,  bears  the  mark  of  a  parental,  wise,  and 
religious  government.  The  foundations  of  the  social  edifice 
are  good  and  respectable ;  "  but  it  wants  a  pinnacle  and  col- 
umns to  render  it  a  fit  temple  of  genius  and  of  glory."2 

I  was  at  Vienna,  in  1808,  when  the  Emperor  Francis  the 
Second  married  his  first-cousin,  the  daughter  of  the  Archduke 
of  Milan  and  the  Archduchess  Beatrix,  the  last  princess  of  that 
house  of  Este  so  celebrated  by  Ariosto  and  Tasso.  The  Arch- 


With  the  exception  of  the  English.— Ed. 
Suppressed  by  the  censors. 


VIENNA.  65 

duke  Ferdinand  and  his  noble  consort  found  themselves  both 
deprived  of  their  states  by  the  vicissitudes  of  war,  and  the 
young  empress,  brought  up  "in  these  cruel  times,"1  united  in 
her  person  the  double  interest  of  greatness  and  misfortune.  It 
was  a  union  concluded  by  inclination,  and  into  which  no  po- 
litical convenience  had  entered,  although  one  more  honorable 
could  not  have  been  contracted.  It  caused  at  once  a  feeling 
of  sympathy  and  respect,  for  the  family  affections  which 
brought  us  near  to  this  marriage,  and  for  the  illustrious  rank 
which  set  us  at  a  distance  from  it.  A  young  prince,  the 
Archbishop  of  Waizen,  bestowed  the  nuptial  benediction  on 
his  sister  and  sovereign ;  the  mother  of  the  empress,  whose 
virtues  and  knowledge  conspire  to  exercise  the  most  powerful 
empire  over  her  children,  became  in  a  moment  the  subject  of 
her  daughter,  and  walked  in  the  procession  behind  her  with  a 
mixture  of  deference  and  of  dignity,  which  recalled  at  the 
same  time  the  rights  of  the  crown  and  those  of  nature.  The 
brothers  of  the  emperor  and  empress,  all  employed  in  the 
army  or  in  the  administration,  all  in  different  ranks,  all  equally 
devoted  to  the  public  good,  accompanied  them  respectively  to 
the  altar,  and  the  church  was  filled  with  the  grandees  of  the 
State,  with  the  wives,  the  daughters,  and  the  mothers,  of  the 
most  ancient  of  the  Teutonic  nobility.  Nothing  new  was  pro- 
duced for  the  f6te ;  it  was  sufficient  for  its  pomp  to  display 
what  each  possessed.  Even  the  women's  ornaments  were  he- 
reditary, and  the  diamonds  that  had  descended  in  every  family 
consecrated  the  remembrances  of  the  past  to  the  decoration  of 
youth ;  ancient  times  were  present  to  all,  and  a  magnificence 
was  enjoyed,  which  the  ages  had  prepared,  but  which  cost  the 
people  no  new  sacrifices. 

The  amusements  which  succeeded  to  the  marriage  consecra- 
tion had  in  them  almost  as  much  of  dignity  as  the  ceremony 
itself.  It  is  not  thus  that  private  individuals  ought  to  give 
entertainments,  but  it  is  perhaps  right  to  find  in  all  the  actions 
of  kings  the  severe  impression  of  their  august  destiny.  Not 


1  Suppressed  by  the  censors. 


66  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

far  from  this  church,  around  which  the  discharge  of  cannons 
and  the  beating  of  drums  announced  the  renewal  of  the  union 
between  the  houses  of  Este  and  Habsburg,  we  see  the  asylum, 
which  has  for  these  two  centuries  inclosed  the  tombs  of  the 
emperors  of  Austria  and  their  family.  There,  in  the  vault  of 
the  Capuchins,  it  was  that  Maria  Theresa,  for  thirty  years, 
heard  mass  in  the  very  sight  of  the  burial-place  which  she  had 
prepared  for  herself  by  the  side  of  her  husband.'  This  illus- 
trious princess  had  suffered  so  much  in  the  days  of  her  early 
youth,  that  the  pious  sentiment  of  the  instability  of  life  never 
quitted  her,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  greatness.  We  have 
many  examples  of  a  serious  and  constant  devotion  among  the 
sovereigns  of  the  earth  ;  as  they  obey  death  only,  his  irresisti- 
ble power  strikes  them  the  more  forcibly.  The  difficulties  of 
life  intervene  between  ourselves  and  the  tomb ;  but  every  thing 
lies  level  before  the  eyes  of  kings,  even  to  the  last,  and  that 
very  level  renders  the  end  more  visible. 

The  feast  induces  us  naturally  to  reflect  upon  the  tomb  ; 
poetry  has,  in  all  times,  delighted  herself  in  drawing  these  two 
images  by  the  side  of  each  other ;  and  fate  itself  is  a  terrible- 
poet  which  has  too  often  discovered  the  art  of  uniting  thorn. 


CHAPTER  V1IL 

OF    SOCIETY. 

THE  rich  and  the  noble  seldom  inhabit  the  suburbs9  of  Vien- 
na ;  and,  notwithstanding  that  the  city  possesses  in  other  re- 
spects all  the  advantages  of  a  great  capital,  the  good  company 

»  "  Every  Friday,  for  thirteen  years  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  Maria 
Theresa  descended  into  this  vault  to  pray  and  weep  by  the  side  of  his  re- 
mains.'1 At  the  present  time,  the  most  interesting  sarcophagus  in  this 
"  last  home  "  of  kings,  is  that  of  young  Napoleon.  Dake  of  Reichstadt. — Ed. 

2  "  Vienna  differs  from  most  other  European  capitals  in  this  respect,  that 
the  old  part  of  the  town,  and  not  the  new,  is  the  most  fashionable.  Within 


SOCIETY.  67 

is  there  brought  together  as  closely  as  in  a  small  town.  These 
easy  communications,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  enjoyments  of  for- 
tune and  luxury,  render  their  habitual  life  very  convenient,  and 
the  frame  of  society,  if  we  may  so  express  it,  that  is,  its  habits, 
usages,  and  manners,  are  extremely  agreeable.  Among  for- 
eigners we  hear  of  the  severe  etiquette  and  aristocratical  pride 
of  the  great  Austrian  nobility  ;  this  accusation  is  unfounded  ; 
there  is  simplicity,  politeness,  and,  above  all,  honesty,  in  the 
good  company  of  Vienna;  and  the  same  spirit  of  justice  and 
regularity,  which  governs  all  important  affairs,  is  to  be  met 
with  also  in  the  smallest  circumstances.  People  are  as  punc- 
tual to  their  dinner  and  supper  engagements,  as  they  would  be 
in  the  discharge  of  more  essential  promises ;  and  those  false 
airs,  which  make  elegance  consist  in  a  contempt  of  the  forms 
of  politeness,  have  never  been  introduced  among  them.  Nev- 
ertheless, one  of  the  principal  disadvantages  of  the  society  01 
Vienna  is,  that  the  nobles  and  men  of  letters  do  not  mix  to- 
gether. The  pride  of  the  nobles  is  not  the  cause  of  this ;  but 
as  they  do  not  reckon  many  distinguished  writers  at  Vienna, 
and  people  read  but  little,  everybody  lives  in  his  own  particu- 
lar coterie,  because  there  is  nothing  but  coteries  in  a  country 
where  general  ideas  and  public  interests  have  so  small  need 
of  being  developed.  From  this  separation  of  classes  it  results 
that  men  of  letters  are  deficient  in  grace,  and  that  men  of  the 
world  are  rarely  abundant  in  information.  • 

The  exactitude  of  politeness,  which  in  some  respects  is  a 
virtue,  since  it  frequently  demands  sacrifices,  has  introduced 
into  Vienna  the  most  fatiguing  of  all  possible  forms.  All  the 
good  company  transports  itself  en  masse,  from  one  drawing- 
room  to  another,  three  or  four  times  every  week.  A  certain 
time  is  lost  in  the  duties  of  the  toilet,  which  are  necessaiy  in 
these  great  assemblies ;  more  is  lost  in  the  streets,  and  on  the 

the  bastions  lie  the  palaces  of  the  emperor  and  some  of  the  principal  no- 
bility ;  the  stately  dwellings  of  the  Harrachs,  Starembergs,  Trautinanns- 
dorfs,  etc. ;  the  public  offices,  the  finest  churches,  and  most  of  the  museums 
and  public  collections,  together  with  the  colleges,  the  exchange,  and  the 
most  splendid  shops." — Ed. 


68  MADAME    DE    STAEI/8    GERMAJTY. 

staircases,  waiting  till  the  carriages  draw  up  in  order;  still 
more  in  sitting  three  hours  at  table ;  and,  it  is  impossible,  in 
these  crowded  assemblies,  to  hear  any  thing  that  is  spoken 
beyond  the  circle  of  customary  phrases.  This  daily  exhibition 
of  so  many  individuals  to  each  other,  is  a  happy  invention  of 
mediocrity  to  annul  the  faculties  of  the  mind.  If  it  were  es- 
tablished that  thought  is  to  be  considered  as  a  malady,  against 
which  a  regular  course  of  medicine  is  necessary,  nothing  could 
be  imagined  better  adapted  for  the  purpose  than  a  sort  of  dis- 
traction at  once  noisy  and  insipid ;  such  as  permits  the  follow- 
ing up  of  no  ideas,  and  converts  language  into  a  mere  chatter- 
ing, which  may  be  taught  men  as  well  as  birds. 

I  have  seen  a  piece  performed  at  Vienna,  in  which  Harle- 
quin enters,  clothed  in  a  long  gown  and  a  magnificent  wig ; 
and  all  at  once  he  juggles  himself  away,  leaving  his  wig  and 
gown  standing  to  figure  in  his  place,  and  goes  to  display  his 
real  person  elsewhere.  One  might  propose  this  game  of  leger- 
demain to  those  who  frequent  large  assemblies.  People  attend 
them,  not  for  the  sake  of  meeting  any  object  that  they  are 
desirous  of  pleasing;  severity  of  manners  and  tranquillity  of 
soul  concentre  in  Austria  all  the  affections  in  the  bosom  of  the 
family.1  They  do  not  resort  to  them  for  the  purposes  of  am- 
bition ;  for  every  thing  passes  with  so  much  regularity  in  this 
country,  that  intrigue  has  little  hold  there ;  and  besides,  it  is 
not  in  the  midst  of  society  that  it  can  find  room  to  exercise 
itself.  These  visits  and  these  circles  are  invented  for  the  sake 
of  giving  all  people  the  same  thing  to  do,  at  the  same  hour ; 
and  thus  they  prefer  the  ennui,  of  which  they  partake  with 
their  equals,  to  the  amusement  which  they  would  be  forced  to 
create  for  themselves  at  home. 

Great  assemblies  and  great  dinners  take  place  in  other  cities 
besides  Vienna ;  but  as  at  such  meetings  we  generally  see  all 
the  distinguished  individuals  of  the  countries  where  we  assem- 
ble, we  there  find  more  opportunities  of  escaping  from  those 


>  Vienna  now  has  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  most  dissolute  cap 
itals  in  Europe. — Ed. 


FOREIGNERS    IMITATE   THE   FRENCH.  69 

forms  of  conversation,  which  upon  such  occasions  succeed  to 
the  first  salutations,  and  prolong  them  in  words.  Society  does 
not  in  Austria,  as  in  France,  contribute  to  the  development  or 
the  animation  of  the  understanding ;  it  leaves  in  the  head 
nothing  but  noise  and  emptiness ;  whence  it  follows,  besides, 
that  the  more  intelligent  members  of  the  community  generally 
estrange  themselves  from  it ;  it  is  frequented  by  women  alone, 
and  even  that  share  of  understanding  which  they  possess  is 
astonishing,  considering  the  nature  of  the  life  they  lead.  For- 
eigners justly  appreciate  the  agreeableness  of  their  conversa- 
tion ;  but  none  are  so  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  the  drawing- 
rooms  of  the  capital  of  Germany,  as  the  men  of  Germany 
itself. 

In  the  society  of  Vienna,  a  stranger  must  be  pleased  with 
the  proper  assurance,  the  elegance,  and  nobleness  of  manner, 
which  reign  throughout  under  the  influence  of  the  women ; 
yet  there  is  wanting  to  it  something  to  say,  something  to  do, 
an  end,  an  interest.  One  feels  a  wish  that  to-day  may  be  dif- 
ferent from  yesterday,  yet  without  such  variety  as  would  inter- 
rupt the  chain  of  affections  and  habits.  In  retirement,  monot- 
ony tranquillizes  the  soul ;  in  the  great  world,  it  only  fatigues 
the  mind. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OF    THE    DESIRE    AMONG    FOREIGNERS    OF    IMITATING    THE 
FRENCH    SPIRIT. 

THE  destruction  of  the  feudal  spirit,  and  of  the  old  chateau 
life,  which  was  the  consequence  of  jt,  has  introduced  a  great 
deal  of  leisure  among  the  nobility ;  this  leisure  has  rendered 
the  amusement  of  society  necessary  to  their  existence ;  and,  as 
the  French  are  reputed  masters  in  the  art  of  conversation,  they 
have  made  themselves  throughout  Europe  the  sovereigns  of 
opinion,  or  rather  of  fashion,  by  which  opinion  is  so  easily 
counterfeited.  Since  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV,  all  the  good  so- 


70  MADAME   DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

ciety  of  the  continent,  Spain  and  Italy  exceptcd,  has  made  its 
self-love  consist  in  the  imitation  of  the  French.  In  England 
there  exists  a  constant  topic  of  conversation,  that  of  politics, 
the  interest  of  which  is  the  interest  of  each  individual  and  of 
all  alike  ;  in  the  South  there  is  no  society  ;  there  the  brilliancy 
of  the  sun,  love,  and  the  fine  arts,  fill  up  the  whole  of  existence. 
At  Paris,  we  talk  upon  subjects  of  literature ;  and  the  specta- 
cles of  the  theatre  continually  changing,  give  place  to  ingenious 
and  witty  remarks.  But  in  most  other  great  cities,  the  only 
subject  that  presents  itself  for  conversation  consists  in  the  anec- 
dotes and  observations  of  the  day,  respecting  those  very  per- 
sons of  whom  what  we  call  good  company  is  composed.  It  is 
a  sort  of  gossip,  ennobled  by  the  great  names  that  are  intro- 
duced, but  resting  on  the  same  foundation  as  that  of  the  com- 
mon people ;  for,  except  that  their  forms  of  speech  are  more 
elegant,  the  subject  of  it  is  the  same — that  is  to  say,  their 
neighbors. 

The  only  truly  liberal  subjects  of  conversation  are  thoughts 
and  actions  of  universal  interest.  That  habitual  backbiting,  of 
which  the  idleness  of  drawing-rooms  and  the  barrenness  of  the 
understanding  make  a  sort  of  necessity,  is  perhaps  more  or  less 
modified  by  goodness  of  character ;  yet  there  is  always  enough 
of  it  to  enable  us  to  hear,  at  every  step,  at  every  word,  the 
buzz  of  petty  tattle,  which,  like  the  buzz  of  so  many  flies,  has 
the  power  of  vexing  even  a  lion.  In  France,  people  employ 
the  powerful  arms  of  ridicule  for  mutual  annoyance,  and  for 
gaining  the  vantage-ground,  which  they  expect  will  afford 
them  the  triumph  of  self-love ;  elsewhere,  a  sort  of  indolent 
chattering  uses  up  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  and  renders  it 
incapable  of  energetic  efforts  of  any  description  whatever. 

Agreeable  conversation^  even  when  merely  on  trifles,  and 
deriving  its  charm  only  from  the  grace  of  expression,  is  capa- 
ble of  conferring  a  high  degree  of  pleasure ;  it  may  be  affirmed, 
without  extravagance,  that  the  French  are  almost  alone  mas- 
ters of  this  sort  of  discourse.  It  is  a  dangerous,  but  a  lively 
exercise,  in  which  subjects  are  played  with  like  a  ball,  which 
in  its  turn  comes  back  to  the  hand  of  the  thrower. 


FOREIGNERS  IMITATE  THE  FRENCH.         71 

Foreigners,  when  they  wish  to  imitate  the  French,  affect 
more  immorality,  and  are  yet  more  frivolous  than  they,  from 
an  apprehension  that  seriousness  may  be  deficient  in  grace, 
and  that  their  thoughts  and  reflections  may  fail  of  possessing 
the  true  Parisian  accent. 

The  Austrians,  in  general,  have  at  once  too  much  stiffness 
and  too  much  sincerity,  to  be  ambitious  of  attaining  foreign 
manners.  Nevertheless,  they  are  not  yet  sufficiently  Germans, 
they  are  not  yet  sufficiently  versed  in  German  literature ;  it  is 
too  much  the  fashion  at  Vienna  to  believe  that  it  is  a  mark  of 
good  taste  to  speak  the  French  language  only ;  forgetting  that 
the  true  glory,  the  real  charm,  of  every  nation,  must  consist  in 
its  own  national  spirit  and  character. 

The  French  have  been  the  dread  of  all  Europe,  particularly 
of  Germany,  by  their  dexterity  in  the  art  of  seizing  and  point- 
ing out  the  ridiculous.  The  words  elegance  and  grace  pos- 
sessed I  know  not  what  magical  influence  in  giving  the  alarm 
to  self-love.  It  seemed  as  if  sentiments,  actions,  life  itself, 
were,  before  all  things,  to  be  subjected  to  this  very  subtile 
legislation  of  fashion,  which  is  a  sort  of  treaty  between  the 
self-love  of  individuals  and  that  of  society ;  a  treaty  on  which 
these  several  and  respective  vanities  have  erected  for  them- 
selves a  republican  constitution  of  government,  which  pro- 
nounces the  sentence  of  ostracism  upon  all  that  is  strong  and 
marked.  These  forms,  these  modes  of  agreement,  light  in  ap- 
pearance and  despotic  at  bottom,  regulate  the  whole  of  exist- 
ence :  they  have  by  degrees  undermined  love,  enthusiasm, 
religion,  all  things  except  that  selfishness  which  cannot  be 
reached  by  irony,  because  it  exposes  itself  to  censure,  but  not 
to  ridicule. 

The  understanding  of  the  Germans  agrees  less  than  that  of 
any  other  people  with  this  measured  frivolity  ;  that  under- 
standing has  hardly  any  power  over  the  surfaces  of  things  ;  it 
must  examine  deeply  in  order  to  comprehend  ;  it  seizes  noth- 
ing on  the  wing  ;  and  it  would  be  hi  vain  that  the  Germans 
disencumbered  themselves  of  the  properties  and  ideas  instilled 
into  them  at  their  birth  ;  since  the  loss  of  the  substance  would 


72  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

not  render  them  lighter  in  the  forms,  and  they  would  rather 
become  Germans  without  worth,  than  amiable  Frenchmen. 

It  must  not  be  thence  concluded  that  grace  is  denied  them ; 
imagination  and  sensibility  confer  it  upon  them,  when  they  re- 
sign themselves  to  their  natural  dispositions.  Their  gayety — 
and  gayety  they  possess,  particularly  in  Austria — has  not  the 
smallest  resemblance  to  the  gayety  of  the  French.  The  Tyro- 
lese  farces,  by  which  at  Vienna  the  great  are  equally  amused 
with  the  vulgar,  are  much  more  nearly  allied  to  Italian  buf- 
foonery than  to  French  ridicule  :  they  consist  in  comic  scenes 
of  strong  character,  representing  human  nature  with  truth, 
but  not  social  manners  with  delicacy.  Yet  still  this  gayety, 
such  as  it  is,  is  worth  more  than  the  imitation  of  a  foreign 
grace  :  such  grace  may  well  be  dispensed  with  ;  but  perfection, 
in  whatever  style,  is  still  something.  "  The  ascendency  ob- 
tained by  French  manners  has  perhaps  prepared  foreigners  to 
believe  them  invincible.  There  is  but  one  method  of  resisting 
this  influence  ;  and  that  consists  in  very  decided  national  hab- 
its and  character." '  From  the  moment  that  men  seek  to  re- 
semble the  French,  they  must  yield  the  advantage  to  them  in 
every  thing.  The  English,  not  fearing  the  ridicule  of  which 
the  French  are  masters,  have  sometimes  ventured  to  pay  them 
in  kind  ;  and,  so  far  from  English  manners  appearing  ungrace- 
ful even  in  France,  the  French,  so  generally  imitated,  became 
imitators  in  their  turn,  and  England  was  for  a  long  time  as 
much  the  fashion  at  Paris,  as  Paris  itself  in  all  other  parts  of 
the  world. 

The  Germans  might  create  to  themselves  a  society  of  a  most 
instructive  cast,  and  altogether  analogous  to  their  taste  and 
character.  Vienna  being  the  capital  of  Germany,  that  place 
in  which  all  the  comforts  and  ornaments  of  life  are  most  easily 
to  be  found  collected,  might  in  this  respect  have  rendered  great 
services  to  the  German  spirit,  if  foreigners  had  not  almost  ex- 
clusively presided  at  all  their  assemblies.  The  generality  of 
Austrians,  who  know  not  how  to  conform  to  the  French  lan- 

i  Suppressed  by  the  police. 


FOREIGNERS    IMITATE   THE    FRENCH.  73 

guage  and  customs,  lived  entirely  out  of  the  world ;  from 
whence  it  resulted  that  they  were  never  softened  by  the  con- 
versation of  women,  but  remained  at  once  shy  and  unpolished, 
despising  every  thing  that  is  called  grace,  and  yet  secretly 
fearing  to  appear  deficient  in  it ;  they  neglected  the  cultivation 
of  their  understandings  under  the  pretext  of  military  occupa- 
tions, and  yet  they  often  neglected  those  occupations  also,  be- 
cause they  never  heard  any  thing  that  might  make  them  feel 
the  value  and  the  charm  of  glory.  They  thought  they  showed 
themselves  good  Germans  in  withdrawing  from  a  society  in 
which  foreigners  had  the  lead,  yet  never  dreamed  of  establish- 
ing another,  capable  of  improving  the  understanding  and  un- 
folding the  mind. 

The  Poles  and  Russians,  who  constituted  the  charm  of  so- 
ciety at  Vienna,  spoke  nothing  but  French,  and  contributed  to 
the  disuse  of  the  German  language.  The  Polish  women  have 
very  seductive  mariners ;  they  unite  an  Oriental  imagination 
with  the  suppleness  and  the  vivacity  of  France.  Yet,  even 
among  the  Sclavonic,  tho  most  flexible  of  all  nations  the  imi- 
tation of  the  French  style  is  often  very  fatiguing ;  the  French 
verses  of  the  Poles  and  Russians  resemble,  with  some  few  ex- 
ceptions, the  Latin  verses  of  the  middle  age.  A  foreign  lan- 
guage is  always,  in  many  respects,  a  dead  language.  French 
verses  are  at  the  same  time  the  easiest  and  the  most  difficult 
to  be  written.  To  tie  hemistiches  to  one  another,  which  are 
so  much  in  the  habit  of  being  found  together,  is  but  a  labor  of 
tho  memory ;  but  it  is  necessary  to  have  breathed  the  air  of  a 
country,  to  have  thought,  enjoyed,  or  suffered,  in  its  language, 
in  order  to  describe  poetically  what  is  felt.  Foreigners,  who 
are  above  all  things  proud  of  speaking  French  correctly,  dare 
not  form  any  opinion  of  our  writers  otherwise  than  as  they  are 
guided  by  the  authority  of  literary  critics,  lest  they  should  pass 
for  not  understanding  them.  They  praise  the  style  more  than 
the  ideas,  because  ideas  belong  to  all  nations,  and  the  French 
alone  are  judges  of  style  in  their  own  language. 

If  you  meet  a  true  Frenchman,  you  take  a  pleasure  in  speak- 
ing with  him  on  subjects  of  French  literature ;  you  find  your- 

VOL.  I.— 4 


74:  MADAME   DE   STAEI/S    GEKMANY. 

self  at  home,  and  talk  about  your  mutual  affairs ;  but  a  for- 
eigner Frenchified  docs  not  allow  himself  a  single  opinion  or 
phrase  not  strictly  orthodox  ;  and  it  is  most  frequently  an  ob- 
solete orthodoxy  that  he  takes  for  the  current  opinion  of  the 
day.  In  many  northern  countries,  people  still  repeat  anec- 
dotes of  the  court  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  Foreigners,  who 
imitate  the  French,  relate  the  quarrels  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontanges  and  Madame  de  Montespan,  with  a  prolixity  of  de- 
tail, which  would  be  tedious  even  in  recording  a  transaction  of 
yesterday.  This  erudition  of  the  boudoir,  this  obstinate  at- 
tachment to  some  received  ideas,  for  no  other  reason  than  the 
difficulty  of  laying  in  a  new  stock  of  provisions  of  the  same 
nature — all  this  is  tiresome  and  even  hurtful ;  for  the  true 
strength  of  a  country  is  its  natural  character ;  and  the  imita- 
tion of  foreigners,  under  all  circumstances  whatever,  is  a  want 
of  patriotism. 

Frenchmen  of  sense,  when  they  travel,  are  not  pleased  with 
finding  among  foreigners  the  spirit  of  Frenchmen ;  and,  on  the 
contrary,  look  out  for  those  who  unite  national  to  individual 
originality.  French  milliners  export  to  the  colonies,  to  Ger- 
many, and  to  the  North,  what  they  commonly  call  their  shop- 
fund  (fonds  de  boutique) ;  yet  they  carefully  collect  the  nation- 
al habits  of  the  same  countries,  and  look  upon  them,  with  good 
reason,  as  very  elegant  models.  What  is  .true  with  regard  to 
dress,  is  equally  true  with  regard  to  the  understanding.  We 
have  a  cargo  of  madrigals,  calembourgs,  vaudevilles,  which  we 
pass  off  to  foreigners  when  they  are  done  with  in  France  ;  but 
the  French  themselves  value  nothing  in  foreign  literature  but 
its  indigenous  beauties.  There  is  no  nature,  no  life,  in  imita- 
tion ;  and,  in  general,  to  all  these  understandings  and  to  all 
these  works,  imitated  from  the  French,  may  be  applied  the 
eulogium  pronounced  by  Orlando,  in  Ariosto,  upon  his  mare, 
while  he  is  dragging  her  after  him — "  She  .possesses  all  the 
good  qualities  that  can  be  imagined ;  but  has  one  fault,  that 
she  is  dead." 


FOLLY    AND   MEDIOCRITY.  75 


CHAPTER  X. 

OF    SUPERCILIOUS    FOLLY    AND    BENEVOLENT    MEDIOCRITY. 

SUPERIORITY  of  mind  and  soul  is  seldom  met  with  in  any 
country,  and,  for  this  very  reason,  it  retains  the  name  of  supe- 
riority ;  thus,  in  order  to  judge  of  national  character,  we  should 
examine  the  mass  of  the  people.  Men  of  genius  are  fellow- 
citizens  everywhere ;  but,  to  perceive  justly  the  difference  be- 
tween the  French  and  Germans,  we  should  take  pains  to  under- 
stand the  communities  of  which  the  two  nations  are  composed. 
A  Frenchman  can  speak,  even  without  ideas ;  a  German  has 
always  more  in  his  head  than  he  is  able  to  express.  We  may 
be  entertained  by  a  Frenchman,  even  when  he  lacks  under- 
standing. He  relates  all  he  has  done  and  seen,  all  the  good 
that  he  thinks  of  himself,  the  praises  he  has  received,  the  great 
lords  he  is  acquainted  with,  the  success  he  hopes  for.  A  Ger- 
man, unless  he  thinks,  can  say  nothing ;  he  is  embarrassed  by 
forms,  which  he  wishes  to  render  polite,  and  by  which  he  in- 
commodes others,  as  well  as  himself.  In  France,  Folly  is  ani- 
mated, but  supercilious.  She  boasts  of  not  being  able  to  com- 
prehend, though  you  demand  of  her  ever  so  little  attention, 
and  thinks  to  lessen  what  she  does  not  understand,  by  affirm- 
ing that  it  is  obscure.  The  prevailing  opinion  of  the  country 
being,  that  success  is  the  criterion  of  every  thing ;  even  fools, 
in  the  quality  of  spectators,  think  themselves  capable  of  influ- 
encing the  intrinsic  merit  of  things,  by  refusing  to  afford  them 
the  distinction  of  their  applause.  People  of  mediocrity,  in 
Germany,  are,  on  the  contrary,  full  of  good-will ;  they  would 
blush  at  finding  themselves  unable  to  rise  to  the  level  of  the 
ideas  of  some  distinguished  writer;  and,  far  from  reckoning 
themselves  judges,  they  aspire  to  become  disciples. 

In  France,  there  are  so  many  ready-made  phrases  on  every 


76  MADAME  DE  STAEL'S  GEKMA^Y. 

subject,  that,  with  their  assistance,  a  fool  may  discourse  well 
enough  for  some  time,  and  for  a  moment  even  seem  a  man  of 
understanding ;  in  Germany,  an  ignorant  person  never  dares 
profess  an  opinion  on  any  subject  whatever  with  confidence ; 
for,  no  opinion  being  received  as  incontestable,  you  can  advance 
none  without  being  previously  armed  to  defend  it ;  thus  ordi- 
nary people  are,  for  the  most  part,  silent,  and  contribute  noth- 
ing to  the  pleasure  of  society,  except  the  charm  of  good-nature. 
In  Germany,  distinguished  persons  only  know  how  to  talk ; 
while,  in  France,  every  one  is  ready  to  bear  his  share  in  con- 
versation. People  of  superior  minds  are  indulgent  in  France, 
and  severe  in  Germany ;  on  the  contrary,  French  fools  are 
malignant  and  jealous ;  while  those  of  Germany,  however 
bounded  in  intellect,  are  yet  able  to  praise  and  admire.  The 
ideas  circulated  in  Germany,  on  many  subjects,  are  new,  and 
often  whimsical ;  from  whence  it  follows,  that  those  who  respect 
them  appear,  for  some  time,  to  possess  a  sort  of  borrowed  pro- 
fundity. In  France,  it  is  by  manners  that  men  give  themselves 
an  illusory  importance.  These  manners  are  agreeable,  but 
uniform;  and  the  discipline  of  fashion  wears  away  all  the 
variety  that  they  might  otherwise  possess. 

A  man  of  wit  told  me,  that,  one  evening,  at  a  masked  ball, 
he  walked  before  a  looking-glass ;  and  that,  not  knowing  how 
to  point  himself  out  to  himself,  from  the  crowd  of  persons 
wearing  similar  dominos  with  his  own,  he  nodded  his  head  to 
recognize  himself:  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  dress  with 
which  the  understanding  clothes  itself  in  the  world ;  we  almost 
confound  ourselves  with  others — so  little  is  the  real  character 
shown  in  any  of  us !  Folly  finds  herself  well  off  in  all  this 
confusion,  and  would  make  advantage  of  it  by  contesting  the 
possession  of  real  merit.  Stupidity  and  folly  are  essentially 
different  in  this, — stupid  people  voluntarily  submit  themselves 
to  nature,  while  fools  always  flatter  themselves  with  the  hope 
of  governing  in  society. 


THE    SPIRn    OF   CONVERSATION.  11 


CHAPTER  XL 

OF    THE    SPIRIT    OF    CONVERSATION. 

IN  the  East,  when  men  have  nothing  to  say,  they  smoke ; 
and,  while  they  are  smoking,  from  time  to  time,  salute  each 
other  with  their  arms  folded  across  their  breasts,  as  a  mark  of 
friendship ;  but,  in  the  West,  people  prefer  to  talk  all  day 
long — and  the  warmth  of  the  soul  is  often  dissipated  in  these 
conversations,  where  self-love  is  always  on  the  wing  to  display 
itself,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  moment,  and  of  the  circle 
in  which  it  finds  itself. 

It  seems  to  me  an  acknowledged  fact,  that  Paris  is,  of  all 
cities  in  the  world,  that  in  which  the  spirit  and  taste  for  con- 
versation are  most  generally  diffused ;  and  that  disorder,  which 
they  call  the  mal  du  pays,  that  undefinable  longing  for  our 
native  land,  which  exists  independently  even  of  the  friends  we 
have  left  behind  there,  applies  particularly  to  the  pleasure  of 
conversation  which  Frenchmen  find  nowhere  else  in  the  same 
degree  as  at  home.  Volney  relates,  that  some  French  emi- 
grants began,  during  the  revolution,  to  establish  a  colony  and 
clear  some  lands  in  America ;  but  they  were  continually  quit- 
ting their  work  to  go  and  talk,  as  they  said,  in  town1 — and 
this  town,  New  Orleans,  was  distant  six  hundred  leagues  from 
their  place  of  residence.  The  necessity  of  conversation  is  felt 
by  all  classes  of  people  in  France  :  speech  is  not  there,  as  else- 
where, merely  the  means  of  communicating  from  one  to  an- 
other ideas,  sentiments,  and  transactions ;  but  it  is  an  instru- 
ment on  which  they  are  fond  of  playing,  and  which  animates 
the  spirits,  like  music  among  some  people,  and  strong  liquors 
among  others. 

1  Only  a  Parisian  fully  knows  what  it  is  causer  a  la  vitte.—Ed. 


78  JttADAME   DE    STAEL's    GEKMANJT. 

That  sort  of  pleasure,  which  is  produced  by  an  animated 
conversation,  does  not  precisely  depend  on  the  nature  of  that 
conversation ;  the  ideas  and  knowledge  which  it  develops  do 
not  form  its  principal  interest ;  it  is  a  certain  manner  of  acting 
upon  one  another,  of  giving  mutual  and  instantaneous  delight, 
of  speaking  the  moment  one  thinks,  of  acquiring  immediate 
self-enjoyment,  of  receiving  applause  without  labor,  of  display- 
ing the  understanding  in  all  its  shades  by  accent,  gesture,  look ; 
of  eliciting,  in  short,  at  will,  the  electric  sparks,  which  relieve 
some  of  the  excess  of  their  vivacity,  and  serve  to  awaken  others 
out  of  a  state  of  painful  apathy. 

Nothing  is  more  foreign  to  this  talent  than  the  character 
and  disposition  of  the  German  intellect ;  they  require  in  all 
things  a  serious  result.  Bacon  has  said,  that  conversation  is 
not  the  road  leading  to  the  house,  but  a  by-path  where  people 
walk  with  pleasure.  The  Germans  give  the  necessary  time  to 
all  things,  but  what  is  necessary  to  conversation  is  amusement ; 
if  men  pass  this  line,  they  fall  into  discussion,  into  serious  ar- 
gument, which  is  rather  a  useful  occupation  than  an  agreea- 
ble art.  It  must  also  be  confessed,  that  the  taste  for  society, 
and  the  intoxication  of  mind  which  it  produces,  singularly  in- 
capacitate for  application  and  study,  and  the  virtues  of  the 
Germans  depend  perhaps  in  some  respects  upon  the  veiy  ab- 
sence of  this  spirit. 

The  ancient  forms  of  politeness,  still  in  full  force  almost  all 
over  Germany,  are  contrary  to  the  ease  and  familiarity  of  con- 
versation ;  the  most  inconsiderable  titles,  which  are  yet  the 
longest  to  be  pronounced,  are  there  bestowed  and  repeated 
twenty  times  at  the  same  meal ;'  every  dish,  every  glass  of 

1  "  One  habit  of  German  society,  which  cannot  fail  sometimes  to  occasion 
a  smile  to  an  Englishman,  though  it  costs  him  some  trouble  to  acquire  it, 
is  the  necessity  of  addressing  everybody,  whether  male  or  female,  not  by 
their  own  name,  but  by  the  titles  of  the  office  wliich  they  hold. 

"  To  accost  a  gentleman,  as  is  usual  in  England,  with  Sir  (Mein  Ilerr),  if 
not  considered  among  the  Germans  themselves  as  an  actual  insult,  is  at 
least  not  complimentary  ;  it  is  requisite  to  find  out  his  office  or  profession. 
Madame  and  Mademoiselle,  addressed  to  German  ladies,  arc  equally  tennr» 
of  inferiority.  The  commonest  title  to  which  everybody  aspires  is  that  of 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   CONVERSATION.  79 

wine,  must  be  offered  with  a  sedulity  and  a  pressing  manner, 
which  is  mortally  tedious  to  foreigners.  There  is  a  sort  of 
goodness  at  the  bottom  of  all  these  usages ;  but  they  could 
not  subsist  for  an  instant  in  a  country  where  pleasantry  may 


Corncillor  (Rath),  which  is  modified  and  extended  by  various  affixes  and 
prefixes.  There  is  a  rath  for  every  profession :  an  architect  is  a  Ban  rath ; 
an  advocate  a  Justizrath,  &c.,  &c. ;  and  a  person  with  no  profession  at  all 
contrives  to  be  made  a  Hofrath  (court  councillor),  a  very  unmeaning  title, 
which  is  generally  borne  by  persons  who  were  never  in  a  situation  to  give 
advice  to  the  court.  The  dignity  of  Staatsrath  (privy  councillor)  is  given 
to  members  of  the  administration ;  some  real  dignity  is  attached  to  it,  and 
the  persons  bearing  it  are  further  addressed  by  the  title  of  excellency.  The 
title  of  Professor  is  much  abused,  as  it  is  certainly  appropriated  by  many 
persons  who  have  no  real  claim  to  it  by  their  learning  or  office.  It  is  bet- 
ter, hi  conversing  with  a  German,  to  give  a  person  a  rank  greater  than  he 
is  entitled  to  than  to  fall  beneath  the  mark.  Geheimrath,  for  example,  is 
higher  than  Professor.  It  is  upon  this  principle  that  an  Englishman  is 
sometimes  addressed  by  the  common  people,  to  his  great  surprise,  as  Hen- 
Graf  (Mr.  Count),  and  often  as  Euer  Gnaden  (Your  Grace). 

" '  Every  man  who  holds  any  public  office,  should  it  be  merely  that  of  an 
under  clerk,  with  a  paltry  salary  of  £40  a  year,  must  be  gratified  by  hear- 
ing his  title,  not  his  name.  Even  absent  persons,  when  spoken  of,  are 
generally  designated  by  their  official  titles,  however  humble  and  unmean- 
ing they  may  be.  The  ladies  are  not  behind  in  asserting  ther  claims  to 
honorary  appellations.  All  over  Germany  a  wife  insists  upon  taking  the 
title  of  her  husband,  with  a  feminine  termination.  There  is  Madame 
General-ess,  Madame  Privy  Councillor-ess,  Madame  Daybook-keeper-ess, 
and  a  hundred  others.' — RUSSELL. 

"  Read  and  see  Kotzebue's  amusing  ridicule  of  this,  in  his  comedy  called 
Die  Deutschen  Kleinstadter. 

"  These  titles  sometimes  extend  to  an  almost  unpronounceable  length. 
Only  think,  for  instance,  of  addressing  a  lady  as  Frau  Oberconsistorial- 
direotorin  (Mrs.  Directress  of  the  Upper  Consistory  Court).  This  may  be 
avoided,  however,  by  substituting  the  words  Gnadige  Frau  (Gracious  Ma- 
dame) in  addressing  a  lady.  It  must  at  the  same  time  be  observed,  that 
this  fondness  for  titles,  and  especially  for  the  prefix  wn  (of,  equivalent  to 
the  French  de,  and  originally  denoting  the  possessor  of  an  estate),  is,  to  a 
certain  extent,  a  vulgarity  from  which  the  upper  classes  of  German  society 
are  free.  The  rulers  of  Germany  take  advantage  of  the  national  vanity, 
and  lay  those  upon  whom  they  confer  the  rank  under  obligation ;  while 
they,  at  the  same  time,  levy  a  tax  upon  the  dignity  proportionate  to  its 
elevation ;  thus  a  mere  Hofrath  pays  from  thirty  to  forty  dollars  annually, 
and  the  higher  dignities  a  more  considerable  sum.  If,  however,  the  title 
is  acquired  by  merit,  no  tax  is  paid,  but  merely  a  contribution  to  a  fund 
for  the  widows  and  children  of  the  class. 

"  Certain  forms  and  titles  are  also  prefixed  on  the  address  of  a  letter :  thus 


80  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

be  risked  without  offence  to  susceptibility  ;  and  yet,  where  can 
be  the  grace  and  the  charm  of  society,  if  it  forbids  that  gentle 
ridicule  which  diverts  the  mind,  and  adds  even  to  the  charm 
of  good-nature  an  agreeable  mode  of  expression  ? 

The  course  of  ideas  for  the  last  century  has  been  entirely 

a  count  of  the  high  nobility  and  ancient  empire  must  be  addressed  Erlaucht 
(Illustrious) ;  a  count  of  the  lesser  noblesse,  Ilochgeborener  Hcrr  (High- 
born Sir) ;  a  baron  and  a  minister,  even  though  not  of  a  noble  birth,  is 
culled  Hochwohlgeboren ;  a  merchant  or  roturier  must  content  himself 
with  being  termed  Wohl  (well)  Geboren  ;  while  Hochedcl  (high  noble)  is 
ironically  applied  to  tradesmen. 

" '  In  one  respect,  in  Germany,  I  think  politeness  is  carried  too  far — I 
mean  in  the  perpetual  act  of  pulling  off  the  hat.  Speaking  ludicrously  of 
it,  it  really  becomes  expensive,  for,  with  a  man  who  has  a  large  acquaint- 
ance in  any  public  place,  his  hat  is  never  two  minutes  at  rest.' — NIMROD'S 
Letters  from  Ifolstein. 

"  A  curious  instance  of  the  extent  to  which  this  practice  of  bowing  is  car- 
ried, occurred  to  the  writer  in  a  small  provincial  town  in  the  south  of  Ger- 
many. At  the  entrance  of  the  public  promenade  in  the  Grande  Place  he 
observed  notices  painted  on  boards,  which  at  first  he  imagined  to  contain 
some  police  regulations,  or  important  order  of  the  magistracy  of  the  town ; 
upon  perusal,  however,  it  proved  to  be  an  ordinance  to  this  effect :  '  For 
the  convenience  of  promenaders,  it  is  particularly  requested  that  the  troub- 
lesome custom  of  saluting  by  taking  off  the  hat  should  here  be  dispensed 
with.'  It  is  not  to  friends  alone  that  it  is  necessary  to  doff  the  hat,  for, 
if  the  friend  with  whom  you  are  walking  meets  an  acquaintance  to  whom 
he  takes  off  his  hat,  you  must  do  the  same,  even  though  you  never  saw 
him  before. 

"German  civility,  however,  does  not  consist  in  outward  forms  alone ; 
a  traveller  will  do  well  to  conform,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  the  manners  of 
the  country,  even  down  to  the  mode  of  salutation,  troublesome  as  it  is.  If 
lie  continue  unbending,  he  will  be  guilty  of  rudeness ;  and  on  entering  any 
public  office,  even  the  office  of  the  schnellposts,  the  underlings  of  the  place, 
down  to  the  book-keeper,  will  require  him  to  take  off  his  hat,  if  he  does  it 
not  of  his  own  accord.  An  English  traveller  repaired  to  the  police  office 
at  Berlin  to  have  his  passport  signed,  and,  having  waited  half  an  hour, 
said  to  the  secretary  to  whom  he  had  delivered  it,  '  Sir,  I  think  you  have 
forgotten  my  passport.'  '  Sir,'  replied  the  man  of  office,  '  I  think  you 
have  forgotten  your  hat !' 

"  In  thus  recommending  to  travellers  the  imitation  of  certain  German  cus- 
toms, it  is  not  meant,  be  it  observed,  to  insist  on  the  practice  prevalent 
among  the  German  men  of  saluting  their  male  friends  with  a  kiss  on  each 
side  of  the  cheek.  It  is  not  a  little  amusing  to  observe  this,  with  us,  femi- 
nine mode  of  greeting,  exchanged  between  two  whiskered  and  mustachioed 
giants  of  the  age  of  fifty  or  sixty." — (Hand-book  for  Northern  Germany, 
pp.  214,  216.)— Ed. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   CONVERSATION.  81 

directed  by  conversation.  They  thought  for  the  purpose  of 
speaking,  and  spoke  for  the  purpose  of  being  applauded,  and 
whatever  could  not  be  said  seemed  to  be  something  superflu- 
ous in  the  soul.  The  desire  of  pleasing  is  a  very  agreeable 
disposition ;  yet  it  differs  much  from  the  necessity  of  being 
beloved :  the  desire  of  pleasing  renders  us  dependent  on  opin- 
ion, the  necessity  of  being  beloved  sets  us  free  from  it :  we  may 
desire  to  please  even  those  whom  we  would  injure,  and  this  is 
exactly  what  is  called  coquetry ;  this  coquetry  does  not  apper- 
tain exclusively  to  the  women ;  there  is  enough  of  it  in  all 
forms  of  behavior  adopted  to  testify  more  affection  than  is 
really  felt.  The  integrity  of  the  Germans  permits  to  them 
nothing  of  this  sort ;  they  construe  grace  literally,  they  con- 
sider the  charm  of  expression  as  an  engagement  for  conduct, 
and  thence  proceeds  their  susceptibility ;  for  they  never  hear  a 
word  without  drawing  a  consequence  from  it,  and  do  not  con- 
ceive that  speech  can  be  treated  as  a  liberal  art,  which  has  no 
other  end  or  consequence  than  the  pleasure  which  men  find  in 
it.  The  spirit  of  conversation  is  sometimes  attended  with  the 
inconvenience  of  impairing  the  sincerity  of  character ;  it  is  not 
a  combined,  but  an  unpremeditated  deception.  The  French 
have  admitted  into  it  a  gayety  which  renders  them  amiable, 
but  it  is  not  the  less  certain,  that  all  that  is  most  sacred  in  this 
world  has  been  shaken  to  its  centre  by  grace,  at  least  by  that 
sort  of  grace  that  attaches  importance  to  nothing,  and  turns 
all  things  into  ridicule. 

The  bon  mots  of  the  French  have  been  quoted  from  one  end 
of  Europe  to  the  other.  At  all  times  they  have  displayed  the 
brilliancy  of  their  merit,  and  solaced  their  griefs  in  a  lively  and 
agreeable  manner ;  at  all'  times  they  have  stood  in  need  of  one 
another,  as  alternate  hearers  and  admirers ;  at  all  times  they 
have  excelled  in  the  art  of  knowing  where  to  speak  and  where 
to  be  silent,  when  any  commanding  interest  triumphs  over  their 
natural  liveliness ;  at  all  times  they  have  possessed  the  talent  of 
living  fast,  of  cutting  short  long  discourses,  of  giving  way  to 
their  successors  who  are  desirous  of  speaking  in  their  turn ;  at 
all  times,  in  short,  they  have  known  how  to  take  from  thought 


82  MADAME   DE    STAEE/S    GERMANY. 

and  feeling  no  more  than  is  necessary  to  animate  conversation, 
without  fatiguing  the  weak  interest  which  men  generally  feel 
for  one  another. 

The  French  are  in  the  habit  of  treating  their  distresses  light- 
ly from  the  fear  of  fatiguing  their  friends ;  they  guess  the  en- 
nui that  they  would  occasion  by  that  which  they  find  them- 
selves capable  of  sustaining;  they  hasten  to  demonstrate  an 
elegant  carelessness  about  their  own  fate,  in  order  to  have  the 
hoiasr,  instead  of  receiving  the  example  of  it.  The  desire  of 
appearing  amiable  induces  men  to  assume  an  expression  of 
gayety,  whatever  may  be  the  inward  disposition  of  the  soul ; 
the  physiognomy  by  degrees  influences  the  feelings,  and  that 
which  we  do  for  the  purpose  of  pleasing  others  soon  takes  off 
the  edge  of  our  own  individual  sufferings. 

"A  sensible  woman  has  said,  that  Paris  is,  of  all  the 
world,  the  place  where  men  can  most  easily  dispense  with  being 
happy:"*  it  is  in  this  respect  that  it  is  so  convenient  to  the 
unfortunate  human  race ;  but  nothing  can  metamorphose  a 
city  of  Germany  into  Paris,  or  cause  the  Germans,  without 
entirely  destroying  their  own  individuality,  to  receive,  like 
us,  the  benefits  of  distraction.  If  they  succeeded  in  escaping 
from  themselves,  they  would  end  in  losing  themselves  alto- 
gether. 

The  talent  and  habit  of  society  conduce  much  to  the  discov- 
ery of  human  characters  :  to  succeed  in  conversation,  one  must 
be  able  clearly  to  observe  the  impression  which  is  produced  at 
every  moment  on  those  in  company,  that  which  they  wish  to 
conceal  or  seek  to  exaggerate,  the  inward  satisfaction  of  some, 
the  forced  smile  of  others;  one  may  see,  passing  over  the 
countenances  of  those  who  listen,  half-formed  censures,  which 
may  be  evaded  by  hastening  to  dissipate  them  before  self-love 
is  engaged  on  their  side.  One  may  also  behold  there  the  first 
birth  of  approbation,  which  may  be  strengthened  without  how- 
ever exacting  from  it  more  than  it  is  willing  to  bestow. 


1  Suppressed  by  the  literary  censorship ;  because  there  must  be  happi- 
ness iu  Paris,  where  the  emperor  lives. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF   CONVERSATION.  ^<5 

There  is  no  arena  in  which  vanity  displays  itself  in  such  a  va- 
riety of  forms  as  in  conversation. 

I  once  knew  a  man,  who  was  agitated  by  praise  to  such  a 
degree,  that  whenever  it  was  bestowed  upon  him,  he  exagger- 
ated what  he  had  just  said,  and  took  such  pains  to  add  to  his 
success  that  he  always  ended  in  losing  it.  I  never  dared  to 
applaud  him,  from  the  fear  of  leading  him  to  affectation,  and 
of  his  making  himself  ridiculous  by  the  heartiness  of  his  self- 
love.  Another  was  so  afraid  of  the  appearance  of  wishing  to 
display  himself,  that  he  let  fall  words  negligently  and  con- 
temptuously. His  assumed  indolence  betrayed  one  more  affec- 
tation only,  that  of  pretending  to  have  none.  When  vanity 
displays  herself,  she  is  good-natured ;  when  she  hides  herself, 
the  fear  of  being  discovered  renders  her  sour,  and  she  affects 
indifference,  satiety,  in  short,  all  that  can  persuade  other  men 
that  she  has  no  need  of  them.  These  different  combinations 
are  amusing  for  the  observer,  and  one  is  always  astonished  that 
self-love  does  not  take  the  course,  which  is  so  simple,  of  natu- 
rally avowing  its  desire  to  please,  and  making  the  utmost  pos- 
sible use  of  grace  and  truth  to  attain  the  object. 

The  tact  which  society  requires,  the  necessity  which  it  im- 
poses of  calling  different  minds  into  action,  all  this  labor  of 
thought,  in  its  relation  with  men,  would  be  certainly  useful  to 
the  Germans  in  many  respects,  by  giving  them  more  of  meas- 
ure, of  finesse,  and  dexterity ;  but  in  this  talent  of  conversa- 
tion there  is  a  sort  of  address  which  always  takes  away  some- 
thing from  the  inflexibility  of  morality ;  if  we  could  altogether 
dispense  with  the  art  of  managing  men,  the  human  character 
would  certainly  be  the  better  in  respect  of  greatness  and  en- 
ergy. 

The  French  are  the  most  skilful  diplomatists  in  Europe ; 
and  the  very  same  persons,  whom  the  world  accuses  of  indis- 
cretion and  impertinence,  know  better  than  all  the  world  be- 
sides how  to  keep  a  secret,  and  how  to  win  those  whom  they 
find  worth  the  trouble.  They  never  displease  others  but  when 
they  choose  to  do  so ;  that  is  to  say,  when  their  vanity  con- 
ceives that  it  will  be  better  served  by  a  contemptuous  than  by 


84:  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

an  obliging  deportment.  Tlie  spirit  of  conversation  Las  re- 
markably called  out  in  the  French  the  more  serious  spirit  of 
political  negotiation  ;  there  is  no  foreign  ambassador  that  can 
contend  with  them  in  this  department,  unless,  absolutely  set- 
ting aside  all  pretension  to  finesse,  he  goes  straight  forward 
in  business,  like  one  who  fights  without  knowing  the  art  of 
fencing. 

The  relations  of  the  different  classes  with  one  another  were 
also  well  calculated  to  develop  in  France  the  sagacity,  measure, 
and  propriety  of  the  spirit  of  society.  The  distinction  of  ranks 
was  not  marked  in  a  positive  manner,  and  there  was  constant 
room  for  ambition  in  the  undefined  space  which  was  open  to 
all  by  turns  to  conquer  or  lose.  The  rights  of  the  Ticrs-Etat, 
of  the  Parliaments,  of  the  Noblesse,  even  the  power  of  the 
King,  nothing  was  determined  by  an  invariable  rule ;  all  was 
lost,  as  may  be  said,  in  the  address  of  conversation :  the  most 
serious  difficulties  were  evaded  by  the  delicate  variations  of 
words  and  manners,  and  it  seldom  happened  to  any  one  either 
to  offend  another  or  to  yield  to  him ;  both  extremes  were 
avoided  so  carefully.  The  great  families  had  also  among 
themselves  pretensions  never  decided  and  alwa)s  secretly  un- 
derstood, and  this  uncertainty  excited  vanity  much  more  than 
any  fixed  distinction  of  ranks  could  have  done.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  study  all  that  composed  the  existence  of  man  or  wom- 
an, in  order  to  know  the  sort  of  consideration  that  was  due  to 
them.  In  the  habits,  customs,  and  laws  of  France,  there  has 
always  been  something  arbitrary  in  every  sense ;  and  thence  it 
happens  that  the  French  have  possessed,  if  we  may  use  the  ex- 
pression, so  great  a  pedantry  of  frivolity :  the  principal  foun- 
dations not  being  secured,  consistency  was  to  be  given  to  the 
smallest  details.  In  England,  originality  is  allowed  to  individ- 
uals, so  well  regulated  is  the  mass.  In  France,  the  spirit  of 
imitation  is  like  a  bond  of  society ;  and  it  seems  as  if  every 
thing  would  fall  into  confusion  if  this  bond  did  not  make  up 
for  the  instability  of  institutions. 

In  Germany,  everybody  keeps  his  rank,  his  place  in  society, 
as  if  it  were  his  established  post,  and  there  is  no  occasion  for 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   CONVERSATION.  85 

dexterous  turns,  parentheses,  half-expressions,  to  show  the  ad- 
vantages of  birth  or  of  title  which  a  man  thinks  he  possesses 
above  his  neighbor.  Good  company,  in  Germany,  is  the  court ; 
in  France  it  consisted  of  all  who  could  put  themselves  on  an 
equality  with  the  court ;  and  every  man  could  hope  it,  and 
eve'-y  man  also  fear  that  he  might  never  attain  to  it.  Hence 
it  resulted,  that  each  individual  wished  to  possess  the  manners 
of  that  society.  In  Germamy  you  obtained  admission  by  pa- 
tent ;  in  France,  an  error  of  taste  expelled  you  from  it  ;  and 
men  were  even  more  eager  to  resemble  the  gens  du  monde. 
than  to  distinguish  themselves,  in  that  same  world,  by  their 
personal  merit. 

An  aristocratical  ascendency,  fashion,  and  elegance,  obtained 
the  advantage  over  energy,  learning,  sensibility,  understanding 
itself.  It  said  to  energy,  "  You  attach  too  much  interest  to 
persons  and  things  ;"  to  learning,  "  You  take  up  too  much  of 
my  tune  ;"  to  sensibility,  "  You  are  too  exclusive  ;"  to  under- 
standing, "  You  are  too  individual  a  distinction."  Advantages 
were  required  that  should  depend  more  on  manners  than  ideas, 
and  it  was  of  more  importance  to  recognize  in  a  man  the  class 
to  which  he  belonged  than  the  merit  he  possessed.  This  sort 
of  equality  in  inequality  is  very  favorable  to  people  of  medioc- 
rity, for  it  must  necessarily  destroy  all  originality  in  the  mode 
of  seeing  and  expressing  one's  self.  The  chosen  model  is  noble, 
agreeable,  and  in  good  taste,  but  it  is  the  same  for  all.  This 
model  is  a  point  of  reunion  ;  in  conforming  to  it,  everybody 
imagines  himself  more  associated  with  others.  A  Frenchman 
would  grow  as  much  tired  of  being  alone  in  his  opinion  as  of 
being  alone  in  his  room. 

The  French  do  not  deserve  to  be  accused  of  flattering  power 
from  the  calculations  which  generally  inspire  this  flattery  ;  they 
go  where  all  the  world  goes,  through  evil  report  or  good  re- 
port, no  matter  which  ;  if  a  few  make  themselves  pass  for  the 
multitude,  they  are  sure  that  the  multitude  will  shortly  follow 
them.  The  French  revolution  in  1789  was  effected  by  sending 
a  courier  from  village  to  village  to  cry,  "  Arm  yourselves  ;  for 
the  neighboring  village  is  armed  ;"  and  so  all  the  world  found 


86  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

itself  risen  up  against  all  the  world,  or  rather  against  nobody. 
If  you  spread  a  report  that  such  a  mode  of  viewing  things  is 
universally  received,  you  \vould  obtain  unanimity  in  cpite  of 
private  opinions ;  you  would  then  keep  the  secret  of  the  com- 
edy, for  every  one  would  in  private  confess  that  all  are  wrong. 
In  secret  scrutinies  the  deputies  have  been  seen  to  give  their 
white  or  black  ball  contrary  to  their  opinion,  only  because  they 
believed  the  majority  to  be  of  different  sentiments  from  their  own, 
and  because,  as  they  said,  they  would  not  throw  away  their  vote. 

It  is  by  this  nececsity  imposed  in  society  of  thinking  like 
other  people,  that  the  contrast  of  courage  in  war  and  pusilla- 
nimity in  civil  life,  so  often  displayed  during  the  revolution, 
£i.'.y  be  best  explained.  There  is  but  one  mode  of  thinking 
with  respect  to  military  courage ;  but  public  opinion  may  be 
bewildered  as  to  the  conduct  to  be  pursued  in  political  life. 
You  are  threatened  with  the  censure  of  those  around  you,  with 
solitude,  with  desertion,  if  you  decline  to  follow  the  ruling 
party ;  but  in  the  armies  there  is  no  other  alternative  than  that 
of  death  or  distinction — a  dazzling  situation  for  the  Frenchman, 
who  never  fears  the  one,  and  passionately  loves  the  other.  Set 
fashion,  that  is,  applause,  on  the  side  of  danger,  and  you  will 
see  the  Frenchman  brave  it  in  every  form ;  the  social  spirit 
exists  in  France  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest :  it  is  necessary 
to  hear  one's  self  approved  by  one's  neighbors  ;  nobody  will  at 
any  price  expose  himself  to  censure  or  ridicule  ;  for  in  a  coun- 
try where  conversation  has  so  much  influence,  the  noise  ot 
words  often  drowns  the  voice  of  conscience. 

We  know  the  story  of  that  man  who  began  by  praising  with 
enthusiasm  an  actress  he  had  just  heard  ;  he  perceived  a  smile 
on  the  lips  of  those  near  him,  and  softened  his  eulogium  ;  the 
obstinate  smile  did  not  withdraw  itself,  and  the  fear  of  ridicule 
made  him  conclude  by  saying,  Mafoi'f  the  poor  shrew  did  all 
she  could.  The  triumphs  of  pleasantry  are  continually  renew- 
ed in  France  ;  at  one  time  it  is  thought  fit  to  be  religious,  at 
another,  the  contrary ;  at  one  time  to  love  one's  wife,  at  an- 
other to  appear  nowhere  in  her  company.  There  have  been 
moments  even,  in  which  men  have  feared  to  pass  for  idiots  if 


THE    SPIKIT    OF   OONVEKSATIOX.  b7 

they  evinced  the  least  humanity ;  and  this  terror  of  ridicule, 
which  in  the  higher  classes  generally  discovers  itself  only  in 
vanity,  is  transformed  into  ferocity  in  the  lower. 

What  mischief  would  not  this  spirit  of  imitation  do  among 
the  Germans !  Their  superiority  consists  in  independence  of 
spirit,  love  of  retirement,  and  individual  originality.  The 
French  are  all-powerful  only  en  masse,  and  their  men  of  genius 
themselves  always  rest  on  received  opinions  when  they  mean 
to  push  onward  beyond  them.  In  short,  the  impatience  of  the 
French  character,  so  attractive  in  conversation,  would  deprive 
the  Germans  of  the  principal  charm  of  their  natural  imagina- 
tion, that  calm  reverie,  that  deep  contemplation,  which  calls  in 
the  aid  of  time  and  perseverance  to  discover  all  things. 

These  are  qualities  almost  incompatible  with  vivacity  of 
spirit ;  and  yet  this  vivacity  is  what  above  all  things  renders 
conversation  delightful.  When  an  argument  tires,  or  a  tale 
grows  tedious,  you  are  seized  with  I  know  not  what  impatience, 
similar  to  that  which  is  experienced  when  a  musician  slackens 
the  measure  of  an  air.  It  is  possible,  nevertheless,  to  fatigue 
by  vivacity  even  as  much  as  by  prolixity.  1  once  knew  a  man 
of  much  understanding,  but  so  impatient,  as  to  make  all  who 
talked  with  him  feel  the  same  sort  of  uneasiness  that  prolix 
people  experience  when  they  perceive  that  they  are  fatiguing. 
This  man  would  jump  upon  a  chair  while  you  were  talking  to 
him,  finish  your  sentences  for  you  that  they  might  not  be  too 
long  :  he  first  made  you  uneasy,  and  ended  by  stunning  you ; 
for,  however  quick  you  may  be  in  conversation,  when  it  is  im- 
possible to  retrench  any  further,  except  upon  what  is  necessary, 
thoughts  and  feelings  oppress  you  for  want  of  room  to  unfold 
them. 

All  modes  of  saving  time  are  not  successful ;  and  a  single 
sentence  may  be  made  tedious  by  leaving  it  full  of  emptiness : 
the  talent  of  expressing  one's  thoughts  with  brilliancy  and 
rapidity  is  that  which  answers  best  in  society,  where  there  is 
no  time  to  wait  for  any  thing.  No  reflection,  no  compliance, 
can  make  people  amuse  themselves  with  what  confers  no 
amusement.  The  spirit  of  conquest  and  the  despotism  of  sue- 


88  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

cess  must  be  there  exerted  ;  for  the  end  and  aim  being  little,  you 
cannot  console  yourself  for  reverses  by  the  purity  of  your  mo- 
tives, and  good  intention  goes  for  nothing  in  point  of  spirit. 

The  talent  of  narrating,  one  of  the  principal  charms  of  con 
versation,  is  very  rare  in  Germany ;  the  hearers  there  are  too 
complaisant,  they  do  not  grow  tired  soon  enough,  and  the  nar- 
rators, relying  on  their  patience,  are  too  much  at  ease  in  their 
recitals.  In  France,  every  speaker  is  a  usurper  surrounded 
by  jealous  rivals,  who  must  maintain  his  post  by  dint  of  suc- 
cess ;  in  Germany,  he  is  a  legitimate  possessor,  who  may  peace- 
ably enjoy  his  acknowledged  rights. 

The  Germans  succeed  better  in  poetical  than  in  epigram- 
matic tales ;  when  the  imagination  is  to  be  addressed,  one  may 
be  pleased  by  details  which  render  the  picture  more  real ;  but 
when  a  bon  mot  is  to  be  repeated,  the  preamble  cannot  be  too 
much  shortened.  Pleasantry  alleviates  for  a  moment  the  load 
of  life :  you  like  to  see  a  man,  your  equal,  playing  with  the 
burden  which  weighs  you  down,  and,  animated  by  his  exam- 
ple, you  soon  take  it  up  in  your  turn ;  but,  when  you  discover 
effort  or  languor  in  that  which  ought  to  be  only  amusement, 
it  fatigues  you  more  than  seriousness  itself,  where  you  are  at 
least  interested  in  the  results. 

The  honesty  of  the  German  character  is,  perhaps,  an  obstacle 
to  the  art  of  narration  ;  the  Germans  have  a  gayety  of  disposi- 
tion rather  than  of  mind ;  they  are  gay,  as  they  are  honest, 
for  the  satisfaction  of  their  consciences,  and  laugh  at  what  they 
say  a  long  while  before  they  have  even  dreamed  of  making 
others  laugh  at  it. 

Nothing,  on  the  contrary,  is  equal  to  the  charm  of  a  recital 
in  the  mouth  of  a  Frenchman  of  sense  and  taste.  He  foresees 
every  thing,  he  manages  every  thing,  and  yet  sacrifices  nothing 
that  can  possibly  be  productive  of  interest.  His  physiognomy, 
less  marked  than  that  of  the  Italians,  indicates  gayety,  without 
losing  any  thing  of  the  dignity  of  deportment  and  manners ; 
he  stops  when  it  is  proper,  and  never  exhausts  even  amuse- 
ment ;  though  animated,  he  constantly  holds  in  his  hand  the 
reins  of  his  judgment,  to  conduct  him  with  safety  and  dia- 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   CONVERSATION.  89 

patch ;  in  a  short  time,  also,  his  hearers  join  in  the  conversa- 
tion ;  he  then  calls  out,  in  his  turn,  those  who  have  been  just 
applauding  him,  and  suffers  not  a  single  happy  expression  to 
drop,  without  taking  it  up — not  an  agreeable  pleasantry,  with- 
out perceiving  it ;  and,  for  a  moment  at  least,  they  delight  and 
enjoy  one  another,  as  if  all  were  concord,  union,  and  sympathy 
in  the  world. 

The  Germans  would  do  well  to  avail  themselves,  in  essential 
matters,  of  some  of  the  advantages  of  the  spirit  of  society  in 
France  :  the  Germans  should  learn  from  the  French  to  show 
themselves  less  irritable  in  little  circumstances,  that  they  might 
reserve  all  their  strength  for  great  ones  :  they  should  learn 
from  the  French  not  to  confound  obstinacy  with  energy,  rude- 
ness with  firmness  ;  they  should  also,  since  they  are  capable 
of  the  entire  sacrifice  of  their  lives,  abstain  from  recovering 
them  in  detail  by  a  sort  of  minute  personality,  which  even 
selfishness  itself  would  not  admit ;  in  fine,  they  should  draw 
out  of  the  very  art  of  conversation  the  habit  of  shedding  over 
their  books  that  clearness  which  would  bring  them  within  the 
comprehension  of  a  greater  number — that  talent  of  abridg- 
ment, invented  by  people  who  practise  amusement  much  more 
than  business — and  that  respect  for  certain  proprieties  which 
does  not  require  any  sacrifice  of  nature,  but  only  the  manage- 
ment of  the  imagination.  They  would  perfect  their  style  of 
writing  by  some  of  the  observations  to  which  the  talent  of 
conversation  gives  birth ;  but  they  would  be  in  the  wrong  to 
pretend  to  that  talent  such  as  the  French  possess  it. 

A  great  city,  that  might  serve  as  a  rallying  point,  would  be 
useful  to  Germany,  in  collecting  together  the  means  of  study, 
in  augmenting  the  resources  of  the  arts,  and  exciting  emula- 
tion ;  but  if  this  metropolis  should  bring  forth,  in  the  Germans, 
the  taste  for  the  pleasures  of  society,  in  all  their  elegance,  they 
would  thus  become  losers  in  that  scrupulous  integrity,  that 
labor  in  solitude,  that  hardy  independence,  which  distin- 
guishes their  literary  and  philosophical  career;  in  short,  they 
would  change  their  meditative  habits  for  an  external  vivacity, 
of  which  they  would  never  aqquire  the  grace  and  the  dexterit), 


90  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OF  THE    GERMAV   LANGUAGE,  IN    ITS    EFFECTS    UPON   THE    SPIRIT 
OF    CONVERSATION. 

IN  studying  the  spirit  and  character  of  a  language,  we  learn 
the  philosophical  history  of  the  opinions,  manners,  and  habits 
of  nations;  and  the  modifications  which  language  undergoes 
must  throw  considerable  light  on  the  progress  of  thought ;  but 
such  an  analysis  would  necessarily  be  very  metaphysical,  and 
would  require  a  great  deal  of  learning  that  is  almost  always 
wanting  to  us  in  the  understanding  of  foreign  languages,  and 
very  frequently  in  that  of  our  own.  We  must  then  confine 
ourselves  to  the  general  impression,  produced  by  the  idiom 
of  a  people  in  its  existing  state.  The  French,  having  been 
spoken  more  generally  than  any  other  European  dialect,  is 
at  once  polished  by  use  and  sharp-edged  for  effect.  No  lan- 
guage is  more  clear  and  rapid,  none  indicates  more  lightly  or 
explains  more  clearly  what  you  wish  to  say.  The  German  ac- 
commodates itself  much  less  easily  to  the  precision  and  rapidity 
of  conversation.  By  the  very  nature  of  its  grammatical  con- 
struction, the  sense  is  usually  not  understood  till  the  end  of  the 
sentence.  Thus  the  pleasure  of  interrupting,  which,  in  France, 
gives  so  much  animation  to  discussion,  and  forces  one  to  utter 
so  quickly  all  that  is  of  importance  to  be  heard,  this  pleasure 
cannot  exist  in  Germany  ;  for  the  beginnings  of  sentences  sig- 
nify nothing  without  the  end ;  every  man  must  be  left  in  pos- 
session of  all  the  space  he  chooses  to  demand :  this  is  better 
for  the  purpose  of  getting  to  the  bottom  of  things ;  it  is  also 
more  civil,  but  it  is  less  animated. 

The  politeness  of  the  Germans  is  more  sincere,  but  less  va- 
ried than  that  of  the  French ;  it  has  more  consideration  for 
rank,  and  more  precaution  in  all  things.  In  France,  they  flat- 
ter more  than  they  humor,  and,  as  they  possess  the  art  of 


THE    GERMAN   LANGUAGE.  9l 

expressing  every  thing,  they  approach  much  more  willingly 
the  most  delicate  subjects.  The  German  is  a  language  very 
brilliant  in  poetry,  very  copious  in  metaphysics,  but  very  posi- 
tive in  conversation.  The  French  language,  on  the  contrary, 
is  truly  rich  only  in  those  turns  of  expression  which  designate 
the  most  complicated  relations  of  society.  It  is  poor  and  cir- 
cumscribed in  all  that  depends  on  imagination  and  philosophy.1 
The  Germans  are  more  afraid  of  giving  pain  than  desirous  of 
pleasing.  Thence  it  follows,  that  they  have,  as  far  as  possible, 
subjected  their  politeness  to  rule ;  and  their  language,  so  bold 
in  their  books,  is  singularly  enslaved  in  conversation,  by  all  the 
forms  with  which  it  is  loaded. 

I  remember  having  been  present,  in  Saxony,  at  a  metaphys- 
ical lecture  given  by  a  celebrated  philosopher,  who  always 
quoted  Baron  Leibnitz,  and  never  did  he  suffer  himself  to 
be  led  in  the  ardor  of  haranguing  to  suppress  this  title  of 
baron,  which  scarcely  belonged  to  the  name  of  a  great  man, 
who  died  nearly  a  century  ago. 

The  German  is  better  adapted  for  poetry  than  prose,  and  its 
prose  is  better  in  writing  than  in  speaking  ;  it  is  an  instrument 
which  answers  very  well  when  one  desires  to  describe  or  to 
unfold  every  thing  ;  but  we  cannot  in  German,  as  in  French, 
glide  over  the  different  subjects  that  present  themselves.  To 
endeavor  to  adapt  German  phrases  to  the  train  of  French  con- 
versation, is  to  strip  them  of  all  grace  and  dignity.  The  great 
merit  of  the  Germans  is  that  of  filling  up  their  time  well ;  the 
art  of  the  French  is  to  make  it  pass  unnoticed. 

Though  the  meaning  of  German  periods  is  often  not  to  be 
caught  till  the  end,  the  construction  does  not  always  admit  of 
a  phrase  being  terminated  by  its  most  striking  expression  ;  and 
yet  this  is  one  of  the  great  means  of  producing  effect  in  con- 
versation. The  Germans  seldom  understand  what  we  call 
bans  mots  •  it  is  the  substance  of  the  thought  itself,  not  the 
brilliancy  communicated  to  it,  that  is  to  be  admired. 

The  Germans  imagine  that  there  is  a  sort  of  quackery  in  a 

1  Madame  de  Stael  could  hardly  have  been  familiar  with  the  older  writers  of 
her  own  country— with  Descartes,  Malebranche,  Pascal  and  Bossuet.— Ed. 


92  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

brilliant  expression,  and  prefer  the  abstract  sentiment,  because 
it  is  more  scrupulous  and  approaches  nearer  to  the  very  essence 
of  truth ;  but  conversation  ought  to  give  no  trouble  either  in 
understanding  or  speaking.  From  the  moment  that  the  sub- 
ject of  discourse  ceases  to  bear  on  the  common  interests  of  life, 
and  we  enter  into  the  sphere  of  ideas,  conversation  in  Germa- 
ny becomes  too  metaphysical ;  there  is  not  enough  intermediate 
space  between  the  vulgar  and  the  sublime ;  and  yet  it  is  in  that 
intermediate  space  that  the  art  of  conversation  finds  exercise. 

The  German  language  possesses  a  gayety  peculiar  to  itself; 
society  has  not  rendered  it  timid,  and  good  morals  have  left  it 
pure  ;  yet  it  is  a  national  gayety,  within  reach  of  all  classes  of 
people.  The  grotesque  sound  of  the  words,  their  antiquated 
naivete,  communicate  something  of  the  picturesque  to  pleas- 
antry, from  which  the  common  people  can  derive  amusement 
i  equally  with  those  of  the  higher  orders.  The  Germans  are 
less  restricted  in  their  choice  of  expressions  than  we  are,  be- 
cause their  language,  not  having  been  so  frequently  employed 
in  the  conversation  of  the  great  world,  is  not,  like  ours,  com- 
posed of  words  which  a  mere  accident,  an  application,  or  an 
allusion  may  render  ridiculous  ;  of  words,  in  short,  which  hav- 
ing gone  through  all  the  adventures  of  society,  are  proscribed, 
unjustly  perhaps,  but  yet  so  that  they  can  never  again  be  ad- 
mitted. Anger  is  often  expressed  in  German,  but  they  have 
not  made  it  the  weapon  of  raillery,  and  the  words  which  they 
make  nse  of  are  still  in  all  their  force  and  all  their  directness 
of  signification  :  this  is  an  additional  facility  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  one  can  express  with  the  French  language  a  thousand 
nice  observations,  a  thousand  turns  of  address,  of  which  the 
German  is  up  to  the  present  tune  incapable. 

We  should  compare  ourselves  with  ideas  in  German,  with 
persons  in  French  ;  the  German  may  assist  us  in  exploring, 
the  French  brings  us  directly  to  the  end  ;  the  one  should  be 
used  in  painting  nature,  the  other  ki  painting  society.  Goethe, 
in  his  romance  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  makes  a  German  woman 
say  that  she  perceives  her  lover  wishes  to  abandon  her  because 
he  writes  to  her  in  French.  There  are  in  fact  many  phrases 


NORTHERN   GERMANY.  93 

in  our  language  by  which  we  may  speak  without  oaying  any 
thing,  by  which  we  may  give  hopes  without  promising,  and 
promise  without  binding.  The  German  is  less  flexible,  and  it 
does  well  to  remain  so ;  for  nothing  inspires  greater  disgust 
than  their  Teutonic  tongue  when  it  is  perverted  to  the  purposes 
of  falsehood,  of  whatever  nature  it  may  be.  Its  prolix  con- 
struction, its  multiplied  consonants,  its  learned  grammar,  re- 
fuse to  allow  it  any  grace  in  suppleness ;  and  it  may  be  said 
to  rise  up  in  voluntary  resistance  to  the  intention  of  him  who 
speaks  it,  from  the  moment  that  he  designs  to  employ  it  in 
betraying  the  interests  of  truth. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

OF    NORTHERN   GERMANY. 

THE  first  impressions  that  are  received  on  arriving  in  the 
north  of  Germany,  above  all  in  the  middle  of  the  winter,  are 
extremely  gloomy  ;  and  I  am  not  surprised  that  these  impres- 
sions have  hindered  most  Frenchmen,  who  have  been  banished 
to  this  country,  from  observing  it  without  prejudice.  The 
frontier  of  the  Rhine  has  something  solemn  in  it.  One  fears, 
in  crossing  it,  to  hear  this  terrible  sentence, —  You  are  out  of 
France,.  It  is  in  vain  that  the  understanding  would  pass  an 
impartial  judgment  on  the  land  that  has  given  us  birth ;  our 
affections  never  detach  themselves  from  it ;  and  when  we  are 
forced  to  quit  it,  existence  seems  to  be  torn  up  by  the  roots, 
and  we  become  strangers  to  ourselves.  The  most  simple  hab- 
its as  well  as  the  most  intimate  relations,  the  most  important 
interests  as  well  as  the  most  trifling  pleasures,  all  once  centered 
in  our  native  country,  and  all  now  belong  to  it  no  more.  We 
meet  nobody  who  can  speak  to  us  of  times  past,  nobody  to  at- 
test to  us  the  identity  of  former  days  with  those  that  are  pres- 
ent;  our  destiny  begins  again  without  the  confidence  of  O'.:r 


-  MADAME    DE    STAELs    GEEMAXY. 

early  years  being  renewed  :  we  change  our  world  without  ex- 
periencing any  change  oT  heart.  Thus  banishment  operates  a? 
a  sentence  of  self-survival ;  our  adieus,  our  separations — all 
seem  like  the  moment  of  death  itself,  and  yet  we  assist  at  them 
with  all  the  energies  of  life  full  within  us. 

I  was,  six  years  ago,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  waiting 
for  the  vessel  that  was  to  convey  me  to  the  opposite  shore ; 
the  weather  was  cold,  tin-  skv  obscure,  and  all  seemed  to  an- 

^  nounce  to  me  Rome  fatal  presage.  When  the  soul  is  violently 
disturbed  by  sorrow,  we  can  hardly  persuade  ourselves  that 
nature  herself  is  indifferent  to  it :  men  may  be  permitted  to 
attribute  some  influence  to  their  griefs ;  it  is  not  pride,  it  is 

i  confidence  in  the  pity  of  heaven.  I  was  uneasy  about  my 
children,  though  they  were  not  yet  of  an  age  to  feel  those 
emotions  of  the  soul  which  cast  terror  upon  all  external 
objects.  My  French  servants  grew  impatient  at  German  slug- 
gishness, and  were  surprised  at  not  making  themselves  under- 
stood in  the  language,  which  they  imagined  to  be  the  only  one 
admitted  in  all  civilized  countries.  There  was  an  old  German, 
woman  iu  the  passage  boat,  sitting  in  a  little  cart,  from  which 
she  would  not  alight  even  to  cross  the  river.  "  You  are  very 
quiet,"  I  said  to  her.  "  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  why  should  I 
make  a  noise  T'  These  simple  words  struck  me  ;  why,  in 
truth,  should  we  make  a  noise  1  But  even  were  entire  genera- 
tions to  pass  through  life  in  silence,  still  misery  and  death 
would  not  the  less  await  them,  or  be  the  less  able  to  reach 
them. 

On  reaching  the  opposite  shore,  I  heard  the  horns  of  the 
postilions,  seeming  by  their  harsh  and  discordant  tones  to  an- 
nounce a  sad  departure  for  a  sad  abode.  The  earth  was  cov- 
ered with  snow  ;  from  the  little  windows,  with  which  the 
houses  were  pierced,  peeped  the  heads  of  some  inhabitants, 
disturbed  by  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  in  the  midst  of  their 
monotonous  employments  ;  a  sort  of  contrivance,  for  moving 
the  bar  at  the  turnpike,  dispenses  with  the  necessity  of  the 
toll-gatherer's  leaving  his  house,  to  receive  the  toll  from  trav- 
ellers. All  is  calculated  for  immobility  ;  and  the  man  who 


NORTHERN    GERMANY.  95 

thinks,  and  he  whose  existence  is  merely  material,  are  alike  in- 
sensible to  all  external  distraction. 

Fields  deserted,  houses  blackened  by  smoke,  Gothic  churches, 
are  all  so  many  preparatives  for  stories  of  ghosts  and  witches. 
The  commercial  cities  of  Germany  are  large  and  well  built  ; 
but  they  afford  no  idea  of  what  constitutes  the  glory  and  inter- 
est of  the  country — its  literary  and  philosophical  spirit.  Mer- 
cantile interests  are  enough  to  unfold  the  understanding  of  the 
French,  and  in  France  some  amusing  society  may  still  be  met 
with  in  a  town  merely  commercial  ;  but  the  Germans,  emi- 
nently capable  of  abstract  studies,  treat  business,  when  they 
employ  themselves  about  it,  with  so  much  method  and  heavi- 
ness, that  they  seldom  collect  from  it  any  general  ideas  what- 
ever. They  carry  into  trade  the  honesty  which  distinguishes 
them ;  but  they  give  themselves  up  so  entirely  to  what  they 
are  about,  that  they  seek  in  society  nothing  more  than  a  jovial 
relaxation,  and  indulge  themselves,  now  and  then,  in  a  few 
gross  pleasantries,  only  to  divert  themselves.  Such  pleasant- 
ries overwhelm  the  French  with  sadness ;  for  they  resign  them- 
selves much  more  willingly  to  grave  and  monotonous  dulness 
than  to  that  witty  sort  of  dulness  which  comes,  slowly  and 
familiarly,  clapping  its  paws  on  your  shoulder. 

The  Germans  have  great  universality  of  spirit  in  literature 
and  in  philosophy,  but  none  whatever  in  business.  They 
always  consider  it  partially,  and  employ  themselves  with  it  in 
a  manner  almost  mechanical.  It  is  the  contrary  in  France ; 
the  spirit  of  business  is  there  much  more  enlarged,  and  univer- 
sality is  admitted  neither  in  literature  nor  in  philosophy.  If 
a  learned  man  were  a  poet,  or  a  poet  learned,  he  would  become 
suspected  among  us,  both  by  learned  men  and  poets ;  but  it  is 
no  rare  thing  to  meet,  in  the  most  simple  merchant,  with  lumi- 
nous perceptions  on  the  political  and  military  interests  of  his 
country.  Thence  it  follows,  that  in  France  there  are  many 
men  of  wit,  and  a  smaller  number  of  thinkers.  In  France, 
they  study  meu  ;  hi  Germany,  books.  Ordinary  faculties  are 
sufficient  to  interest  one  in  speaking  of  men,  but  it  requires 
almost  genius  itself  to  discover  a  soul  and  au  impulse  in  borks. 


90  MADAME   DE    STAEL'S   GERMANY. 

Germany  can  interest  only  those  who  employ  themselves  about 
past  events  and  abstract  ideas.  The  present  and  the  real  be- 
long to  France,  and,  until  a  new  order  of  things  shall  arise, 
she  does  not  appear  disposed  to  renounce  them. 

I  think  I  am  not  endeavoring  to  conceal  the  inconveniencies 
of  Germany.  Even  those  small  towns  of  the  north,  where  we 
meet  with  men  of  such  lofty  conceptions,  often  present  no  kind 
of  amusement — no  theatre,  little  society ;  time  falls  drop  by 
drop,  and  no  sound  disturbs  the  reflections  of  solitude.  The 
smallest  towns  in  England  partake  of  the  character  of  a  free 
State,  in  sending  their  deputies  to  treat  of  the  interests  of  the 
nation.  The  smaller  towns  of  France  bear  some  analogy  to 
the  capital,  the  centre  of  so  many  wonders.  Those  of  Italy 
rejoice  in  the  bright  sky  and  the  fine  arts,  which  shed  their 
rays  over  all  the  country.  In  the  north  of  Germany  there  is 
no  representative  government,  no  great  metropolis ;  and  the 
severity  of  the  climate,  the  mediocrity  of  fortune,  and  the 
seriousness  of  character,  would  combine  to  render  existence 
very  irksome,  if  the  force  of  thought  had  not  set  itself  free 
from  all  these  insipid  and  narrowing  circumstances.  The  Ger- 
mans have  found  the  means  of  creating  to  themselves  a  repub- 
lic of  letters,  at  once  animated  and  independent.  They  have 
supplied  the  interests  of  events  by  the  interest  of  ideas.  They 
can  do  without  a  centre,  because  all  tend  to  the  same  object, 
and  their  imagination  multiplies  the  small  number  of  beauties 
which  art  and  nature  are  able  to  afford  them. 

The  citizens  of  this  ideal  republic,  disengaged  for  the  most 
part  from  all  sort  of  connection  either  with  public  or  private 
business,  work  in  the  dark  like  miners ;  and,  placed  like  them 
in  the  midst  of  buried  treasures,  they  silently  dig  out  the  in- 
tellectual riches  of  the  human  race. 


SAXONY.  97 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SAXONY. 

SINCE  the  Reformation,  the  princes  of  the  house  of  Saxony 
have  always  granted  to  letters  the  most  noble  of  protections, 
— independence.  It  may  be  said  without  fear,  that  in  no 
country  of  the  earth  does  there  exist  such  general  instruction 
as  in  Saxony,  and  in  the  north  of  Germany.  It  is  there  that 
Protestantism  had  its  birth,  and  the  spirit  of  inquiry  has  there 
maintained  itself  ever  since  in  full  vigor. 

During  the  last  century  the  electors  of  Saxony  have  been 
Catholics;  and,  though  they  have  remained  faithful  to  the 
oath,  which  obliged  them  to  respect  the  worship  of  their  sub- 
jects, this  difference  of  religion  between  prince  and  people  has 
given  less  of  political  unity  to  the  State.  The  electors,  kings 
of  Poland,  were  more  attached  to  the  arts  than  to  literature, 
to  which,  though  they  did  not  molest  it,  they  were  strangers. 
Music  is  generally  cultivated  throughout  Saxony ;  in  the  gal- 
lery of  Dresden  are  collected  together  chefs-d'oeuvre  for  the 
imitation  of  artists.  The  face  of  nature,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  capital,  is  extremely  picturesque,  but  society  does  not 
afford  there  higher  pleasures  than  in  the  rest  of  Germany ;  the 
elegance  of  a  court  is  wanting — its  ceremoniousness  only  finds 
an  easy  establishment. 

From  the  quantity  of  works  that  are  sold  at  Leipsic,  we  may 
judge  of  the  number  of  readers  of  German  publications ;  arti- 
sans of  all  classes,  even  stone-cutters,  are  often  to  be  seen,  rest- 
ing from  their  labors,  with  a  book  in  their  hands.  It  cannot 
be  imagined  in  France  to  what  a  degree  knowledge  is  diffused 
over  Germany.  I  have  seen  innkeepers  and  turnpikemen  well 
versed  in  French  literature.  In  the  very  villages,  we  meet 
with  professors  of  Greek  and  Latin.  There  is  not  a  small  town 


98  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GEEMAXY. 

without  a  decent  library ;  and  almost  every  place  boasts  of 
some  men,  worthy  of  remark  for  their  talents  or  informa- 
tion. If  we  were  to  set  ourselves  about  comparing,  in  this 
respect,  the  French  provinces  with  Germany,  we  should  be 
apt  to  believe  that  the  two  nations  were  three  centuries  dis- 
tant from  each  other.  Paris,  uniting  in  its  bosom  the  whole 
flower  of  the  empire,  takes  from  the  remainder  every  sort  of 
interest. 

Picard  and  Kotzebue  have  composed  two  very  pretty  pieces, 
both  entitled  The  Country  Town.  Picard  represents  the  pro- 
vincials incessantly  aping  Parisian  manners,  and  Kotzebue  the 
citizens  of  his  little  community  delighted  with  and  proud  of 
the  place  they  inhabit,  which  they  believe  to  be  incomparable.1 
The  different  nature  of  the  ridicule  gives  a  good  idea  of  the 
difference  of  manners.  In  Germany,  every  residence  is  an 
empire  to  its  inhabitant ;  his  imagination,  his  studies,  or  per- 
haps his  mere  good-nature,  aggrandize  it  before  his  eyes; 
everybody  knows  how  to  make  the  best  of  himself  in  his  little 
circle.  The  importance  they  attach  to  every  thing  afford* 
matter  of  pleasantry ;  but  this  very  importance  sets  a  value 
upon  small  resources.  In  France,  nobody  is  interested  out  of 
Paris ;  and  with  reason,  for  Paris  is  all  France ;  and  one  who 
has  lived  only  in  the  country  can  not  have  the  slightest  notion 
of  that  which  characterizes  this  illustrious  nation. 

The  distinguished  men  of  Germany,  not  being  brought  to- 
gether in  the  same  place,  seldom  see  each  other,  and  commu- 
nicate only  by  writing ;  each  one  makes  his  own  road,  and  is 
continually  discovering  new  districts  in  the  vast  region  of  an- 
tiquity, metaphysics,  and  science.  What  is  called  study  in 
Germany  is  truly  admirable :  fifteen  hours  a  day  of  solitude 
and  labor,  for  several  years  in  succession,  appear  to  them  a 
natural  mode  of  existence ;  the  very  ennui  of  society  gives 
animation  to  a  life  of  retirement. 

The  most  unbounded  freedom  of  the  press  existed  in  Sax- 

1  Picard  is  a  celebrated  French,  Kotzebue  a  celebrated  German,  writer 
of  plays. — Ed. 


SAXOITT.  99 

ony ;  but  the  government  was  not  in  any  manner  endangered 
by  it,  because  the  minds  of  literary  men  did  not  turn  towards 
the  examination  of  political  institutions ;  solitude  tends  to  de- 
liver men  up  to  abstract  speculations  or  to  poetry  :  one  must 
live  in  the  very  focus  of  human  passions,  to  feel  the  desire  of 
employing  and  directing  them  to  one's  own  purposes.  The 
German  writers  occupied  themselves  only  with  theoretical  doc- 
trines, with  erudition,  and  literary  and  philosophical  research ; 
and  the  powerful  of  this  world  have  nothing  to  apprehend  from 
such  studies.  Besides,  although  the  government  of  Saxony 
was  not  free  by  right,  that  is,  representation,  yet  it  was  vir- 
tually free  through  the  habits  of  the  nation,  and  the  modera- 
tion of  its  princes. 

The  honesty  of  the  inhabitants  was  such,  that  a  proprietor 
at  Leipsic  having  fixed  on  an  apple-tree  (which  he  had  planted 
on  the  borders  of  the  public  walk)  a  notice,  desiring  that  peo- 
ple would  not  gather  the  fruit,  not  a  single  apple  was  stolen 
from  it  for  ten  years.  I  have  seen  this  apple-tree  with  a  feel- 
ing of  respect ;  had  it  been  the  tree  of  the  Hesperides,  they 
•would  no  more  have  touched  its  golden  fruit  than  its  blossoms. 

Saxony  was  profoundly  tranquil;  they  sometimes  made  a 
noise  there  about  certain  ideas,  but  without  ever  thinking  of 
applying  them.  One  would  have  said  that  thought  and  action 
•were  made  to  have  no  reference  to  each  other,  and  that  truth, 
among  the  Germans,  resembled  the  statue  of  Hermes,  without 
hands  to  seize  or  feet  to  advance.  Yet  is  there  nothing  so 
respectable  as  these  peaceful  triumphs  of  reflection,  which  con- 
tinually occupied  isolated  men,  without  fortune,  without  power, 
and  connected  together  only  by  worship  and  thought. 

In  France,  men  never  occupied  themselves  about  abstract 
truths,  except  in  their  relation  to  practice.  To  perfect  the  art 
of  government,  to  encourage  population  by  a  wise  political 
economy — such  were  the  objects  of  philosophical  labor,  espe- 
cially in  the  last  century.  This  mode  of  employing  time  is 
also  very  respectable ;  but,  in  the  scale  of  reflection,  the  dig- 
nity of  the  human  race  is  of  greater  importance  than  its  hap- 
piness, and,  still  more,  than  its  increase :  to  multiply  human 


100  MADAME    DE    STAEL,'s    GERMANY. 

births  without  ennobling  the  destiny  of  man,  is  only  to  prepare 
a  more  sumptuous  banquet  for  death. 

The  literary  'towns  of  Saxony  are  those  in  which  the  most 
benevolence  and  simplicity  predominate.  Everywhere  else, 
literature  has  been  considered  as  the  appendage  of  luxury ;  in 
Germany,  it  seems  to  exclude  it.  The  tastes  which  it  engen- 
ders produce  a  sort  of  candor  and  timidity  favorable  to  the 
love  of  domestic  life  ;  not  that  the  vanity  of  authorship  is  with- 
out a  very  marked  character  among  the  Germans,  but  it  does 
not  attach  itself  to  the  triumph  of  society.  The  most  incon- 
siderable writer  looks  to  posterity  for  his  reward ;  and,  unfold- 
ing himself  at  his  ease  in  the  space  of  boundless  meditations, 
he  is  less  in  conflict  with  other  men,  and  less  embittered  against 
them.  Still,  there  is  too  wide  a  separation  in  Saxony  between 
men  of  letters  and  statesmen,  to  allow  the  display  of  any  true 
public  spirit.  From  this  separation  it  results,  that  among  the 
first  there  is  too  much  ignorance  of  affairs  to  permit  them  any 
ascendency  over  the  nation,  and  that  the  latter  pride  them- 
selves in  a  sort  of  docile  Machiavelism,  which  smiles  at  all 
generous  feelings,  as  at  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  and  seems  to 
indicate  to  them,  that  they  are  not  fit  for  this  world. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WEIMAR. 

OF  all  the  German  principalities,  there  is  none  that  makes 
us  feel  more  than  Weimar  the  advantages  of  a  small  State, 
when  its  sovereign  is  a  man  of  strong  understanding,  and  is 
capable  of  endeavoring  to  please  all  orders  of  his  subjects, 
without  losing  any  thing  in  their  obedience.  Such  a  State  is 
as  a  private  society,  where  all  the  members  are  connected  to- 
gether by  intimate  relations.  The  Duchess  Louisa  of  Saxe 
Weimar  is  the  true  model  of  a  woman  destined  by  nature  to 


WEIMAR.  101 

the  most  illustrious  rank ;  without  pretension,  as  without 
weakness,  she  inspires,  in  the  same  degree,  confidence  and 
respect;  and  the  heroism  of  the  chivalrous  ages  has  entered 
her  soul  without  taking  from  it  any  thing  of  her  sex's  soft- 
ness. The  military  talents  of  the  duke  are  universally  re- 
spected, and  his  lively  and  reflective  conversation  continually 
brings  to  our  recollection,  that  he  was  formed  by  the  great 
Frederick.  It  is  by  his  own  and  his  mother's  reputation 
that  the  most  distinguished  men  of  learning  have  been  at- 
tracted to  Weimar.  Germany,  for  the  first  time,  possessed 
a  literary  metropolis ;  but  as  this  metropolis  was,  at  the 
same  time,  only  an  inconsiderable  town,  its  ascendency  was 
merely  that  of  superior  enlightenment ;  for  fashion,  which  im- 
poses uniformity  in  all  things,  could  not  emanate  from  so  nar- 
row a  circle. 

Herder  was  just  dead  when  I  arrived  at  Weimar ;  but  Wie- 
land,  Goethe,  and  Schiller,  were  still  there.  I  shall  paint  each 
of  these  men  separately  in  the  following  section ;  I  shall  paint 
them,  above  all,  by  their  works ;  for  their  writings  are  the 
perfect  resemblances  of  their  character  and  conversation.  This 
very  rare  concordance  is  a  proof  of  sincerity :  when  the  first 
object  in  writing  is  to  produce  an  effect  upon  others,  a  man 
never  displays  himself  to  them,  such  as  he  is  in  reality ;  but 
when  he  writes  to  satisfy  an  internal  inspiration,  which  has 
obtained  possession  of  the  soul,  he  discovers  by  his  works, 
even  without  intending  it,  the  very  slightest  shades  of  his  man- 
ner of  thinking  and  acting. 

The  residence  of  country  towns  has  always  appeared  to  me 
very  irksome.  The  understanding  of  the  men  is  narrowed,  the 
heart  of  the  women  frozen,  there ;  people  live  so  much  in  each 
other's  presence,  that  they  are  oppressed  by  their  equals ;  it  is 
no  longer  that  distant  opinion,  the  reverberation  of  which  ani- 
mates you  from  afar,  like  the  report  of  glory ;  it  is  a  minute 
inspection  of  all  the  actions  of  your  life,  an  observation  of  every 
detail,  which  prevents  the  general  character  from  being  com- 
prehended ;  and  the  more  you  have  of  independence  and  ele- 
vation, the  less  able  you  are  to  breathe  amid  so  many  little 


102  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

impediments.  This  painful  constraint  did  not  exist  at  Weimar ; 
it  was  rather  a  large  palace  than  a  little  town  ;  a  select  circle 
made  its  interest  consist  in  the  discussion  of  each  new  produc- 
tion of  art.  Women,  the  amiable  disciples  of  some  superior 
men,  were  constantly  speaking  of  the  new  literary  works,  as  of 
the  most  important  public  events.  They  called  to  themselves 
the  whole  universe  by  reading  and  study ;  they  freed  them- 
selves, by  the  enlargement  of  the  mind,  from  the  restraint  of 
circumstances ;  they  forgot  the  private  anecdotes  of  each  indi- 
vidual, in  habitually  reflecting  together  on  those  great  ques- 
tions, which  influence  the  destiny  common  to  all  alike.  And 
in  this  society  there  were  none  of  those  provincial  wonders, 
who  so  easily  mistake  contempt  for  grace,  and  affectation  for 
elegance.' 

1  "  On  a  first  acquaintance,  "Weimar  seems  more  like  a  village  bordering 
a  park,  than  a  capital  •with  a  court,  and  having  all  courtly  environments. 
It  is  so  quiet,  so  simple ;  and  although  ancient  in  its  architecture,  has  none 
of  the  picturesqueness  which  delights  the  eye  in  most  old  German  cities. 
The  stone-colored,  light-brown,  and  apple-green  houses  have  high-peaked 
slanting  roofs,  but  no  quaint  gables,  no  caprices  of  architectural  fancy,  none 
of  the  mingling  of  varied  styles  which  elsewhere  charm  the  traveller.  One 
learns  to  love  its  quiet  simple  streets,  and  pleasant  paths,  fit  theatre  for 
the  simple  actors  moving  across  the  scene ;  but  one  must  live  there  some 
time  to  discover  its  charm.  The  aspect  it  presented  when  Goethe  arrived, 
was  of  course  very  different  from  that  presented  now ;  but  by  diligent 
inquiry  we  may  get  some  rough  image  of  the  place  restored.  First  be  it 
noted  that  the  city  walls  were  still  erect ;  gates  and  portcullis  still  spoke 
of  days  of  warfare.  Within  these  walls  were  six  or  seven  hundred  houses, 
not  more ;  most  of  them  very  ancient.  Under  these  roofs  were  about  seven 
thousand  inhabitants — for  the  most  part  not  handsome.  The  city  gates 
were  strictly  guarded.  No  one  could  pass  through  them  in  cart  or  car- 
riage without  leaving  his  name  in  the  sentinel's  book ;  even  Goethe,  min- 
ister and  favorite,  could  not  escape  this  tiresome  formality,  as  we  gather 
from  one  of  his  letters  to  the  Frau  von  Stein,  directing  her  to  go  out  alone, 
and  meet  him  beyond  the  gates,  lest  their  exit  together  should  be  known. 
During  Sunday  service  a  chain  was  thrown  across  the  streets  leading  to 
the  church  to  bar  out  all  passengers, — a  practice  to  this  day  partially  re- 
tained :  the  chain  is  fastened,  but  the  passengers  step  over  it  without  cere- 
mony. There  was  little  safety  at  night  in  those  silent  streets ;  for  if  you 
were  in  no  great  danger  from  marauders,  you  were  in  constant  danger  of 
breaking  a  limb  in  some  hole  or  other ;  the  idea  of  lighting  streets  not 
having  presented  itself  to  the  Thuringian.  In  the  year  1685,  the  streets  of 
London  were  first  lighted  with  lamps ;  and  Germany,  in  most  things  a 


WEIMAR.  103 

In  the  same  principality,  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
this  first  literary  reunion  of  Germany,  was  Jena,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  centres  of  science.  Thus,  in  a  very  narrow 


century  behind  England,  had  not  yet  ventured  on  that  experiment.  If  in 
this  1854,  Weimar  is  still  innocent  of  gas,  and  perplexes  its  inhabitants 
with  the  dim  obscurity  of  an  occasional  oil-lamp  slung  on  a  cord  across  the 
streets,  we  may  imagine  that  in  1775  they  had  not  even  advanced  so  far. 

And  our  supposition  is  exact 

"  Saxe- Weimar  has  no  trade,  no  manufactures,  no  animation  of  commer- 
cial, political,  or  even  theological  activity.  This  part  of  Saxony,  be  it  re- 
membered, was  the  home  and  shelter  of  Protestantism  in  its  birth.  Only 
a  few  miles  from  Weimar  stands  the  Wartburg,  where  Luther,  in  the  dis- 
guise of  Squire  George,  lived  in  safety,  translating  the  Bible,  and  hurling 
his  inkstand  at  the  head  of  Satan,  like  a  rough-handed  disputant  as  he  was. 
In  the  market-place  of  Weimar  stand,  to  this  day,  two  houses  from  the 
windows  of  which  Tetzel  advertised  his  Indulgences,  and  Luther,  in  fiery 
indignation,  fulminated  against  them.  These  records  of  religious  straggle 
still  remain,  but  are  no  longer  suggestions  for  the  continuance  of  the  strife. 
The  fire  is  burnt  out ;  and  perhaps  in  no  city  of  Europe  is  theology  so 
placid,  polemics  so  entirely  at  rest.  The  Wartburg  still  rears  its  pic- 
turesque eminence  over  the  lovely  Thuringian  valleys,  and  Luther's  room 
is  visited  by  thousands  of  pilgrims ;  but  in  this  very  palace  of  the  Wart- 
burg, besides  the  room  where  Luther  struggled  with  Satan,  the  visitors 
are  shown  the  Banqueting  Hall  of  the  Minnesingers,  where  poet  challenged 
poet,  and  the  Sangerkritg,  or  Minstrels'  Contest,  was  celebrated.  The  con- 
trast may  be  carried  further.  It  may  be  taken  as  a  symbol  of  the  intel- 
lectual condition  of  Saxe- Weimar,  that  while  the  relics  of  Luther  are  sun- 
ply  preserved,  the  Minstrel  Hall  is  now  being  restored  in  more  than  its 
pristine  splendor.  Lutheran  theology  is  crumbling  away,  just  as  the 
famous  inkspot  has  disappeared  beneath  the  gradual  scrapings  of  visitors' 
penknives ;  but  the  Minstrelsy  of  which  the  Germans  are  so  proud,  daily 
receives  fresh  honor  and  adulation.  Nor  is  this  adulation  a  mere  revival 
Every  year  the  Wartburg  saw  assembled  the  members  of  that  numerous 
family  (the  Bachs)  which,  driven  from  Hungary  in  the  early  period  of  re- 
form, had  settled  in  Saxony,  and  had  given,  besides  the  great  John  Sebas- 
tian Bach,  so  many  noble  musicians  to  the  world.  Too  numerous  to  gain 
a  livelihood  in  one  city,  the  Bachs  agreed  to  meet  every  year  at  the  Wart- 
burg. This  custom,  which  was  continued  till  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  not  only  presented  the  singular  spectacle  of  one  family  consisting 
of  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty  musicians,  but  was  also  the  occasion 
of  musical  entertainments  such  as  were  never  heard  before.  They  began 
by  religious  hymns,  sung  in  chorus ;  they  then  took  for  their  theme  some 
popular  song,  comic  or  licentious,  varying  it  by  the  improvisation  of  four, 
five,  or  six  parts ;  these  improvisations  were  named  QvoUbets,  and  are  con- 
sidered by  many  writers  to  have  been  the  origin  of  German  opera." — (G. 
H.  Lewes'  Life  of  Goethe,  vol.  i.  pp.  311-314.)— Ed. 


104  MADAME   DE    STAEL,'s    GERMANY. 

space,  there  seemed  to  be  collected  together  all  the  astonishing 
lights  of  the  human  understanding. 

The  imagination,  constantly  kept  awake  at  Weimar  by  the 
conversation  of  poets,  felt  less  need  of  outward  distractions ; 
these  distractions  serve  to  lighten  the  burden  of  existence,  but 
often  disperse  its  powers.  In  this  country  residence,  called  a 
city,  they  led  a  regular,  occupied,  and  serious  life ;  one  might 
sometimes  feel  weary  of  it,  but  the  mind  was  never  degraded 
by  futile  and  vulgar  interests ;  and  if  pleasures  were  wanting, 
the  decay  of  faculties  was  at  least  never  perceived. 

The  only  luxury  of  the  prince  is  a  delicious  garden ;  and 
this  popular  enjoyment,  which  he  shares  in  common  with  all 
the  inhabitants  of  the  place,  is  a  possession  on  Avhich  he  is  con- 
gratulated by  all.  The  stage,  of  which  I  shall  speak  in  the 
second  division  of  my  work,  is  managed  by  the  greatest  poet 
in  Germany,  Goethe  ;'  and  this  amusement  interests  all  people 
sufficiently  to  preserve  them  from  those  assemblies,  which  an- 
swer no  other  end  than  to  bring  concealed  ennui  to  light. 
Weimar  was  called  the  Athens  of  Germany ;  and  it  was,  in 


1  "  It  was  in  1790,  that  the  Weimar  Theatre  was  rebuilt  and  reopened. 
Goethe  undertook  the  direction  with  powers  more  absolute  than  any  direc- 
tor ever  had ;  for  he  was  independent  even  of  success.  The  court  paid  all 
expenses,  and  the  stage  was  left  free  for  him  to  make  experiments  upon. 

He  made  them,  and  they  all  failed Of  him  Edward  Devrient,  in 

his  excellent  history  of  the  German  stage  (Oeschichte  der  deutschen  Schaus- 
piel-Kunsf),  says :  '  He  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  pit ;  his  powerful  glance 
governed  and  directed  the  circle  around  him,  and  bridled  the  dissatisfied  or 
neutral.  On  one  occasion,  when  the  Jena  students,  whose  arbitrary  judg- 
ment was  very  unseasonable  to  him,  expressed  their  opinion  too  tunral- 
tuously,  he  rose,  commanded  silence,  and  threatened  to  have  the  disturbers 
turned  out  by  the  hussars  on  guard.  A  similar  scene  took  place  in  1802, 
on  the  representation  of  Fr.  Schlegel's  Alarcos,  which  appeared  to  the  pub- 
lic too  daring  an  attempt,  and  the  approbation  given  by  the  loyal  party 
provoked  a  loud  laugh  of  opposition.  Goethe  rose  and  called  out  with  a 
voice  of  thunder,  '  Let  no  one  laugh !'  At  last  he  went  so  far  as  for  some 
time  to  forbid  any  audible  expression  on  the  part  of  the  public,  whether  of 
approval  or  disapproval.  He  would  suifer  no  kind  of  disturbance  in  what 
he  held  to  be  suitable.  Over  criticism  he  kept  a  tight  rein  ;  hearing  that 
Botticher  was  writing  an  essay  on  his  direction  of  the  theatre,  he  declared, 
that  if  it  appeared,  he  would  resign  his  post ;  and  Botticher  left  the  article 
unprinted." — (Lewes'  Biography  of  Goethe,  vol.  ii.  pp.  242-245.) — Ed. 


PRUSSIA.  105 

reality,  the  only  place  where  the  fine  arts  inspired  a  national 
interest,  which  served  for  a  bond  of  fraternal  union  among  dif- 
ferent ranks  of  society.  A  liberal  court  habitually  sought  the 
acquaintance  of  men  of  letters ;  and  literature  gained  consid- 
erably in  the  influence  of  good  taste  which  presided  there.  A 
iudgment  might  be  formed,  from  this  little  circle,  of  the  good 
effect  which  might  be  produced  throughout  Germany  by  such, 
a  mixture,  if  generally  adopted. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

PRUSSIA. 

IN  order  to  be  acquainted  with  Prussia,  you  must  study  the 
character  of  Frederick  II.  A  man  created  this  empire  which 
nature  had  not  favored,  which  became  a  power  only  because  a 
warrior  was  its  master.  In  Frederick  the  Second  there  arc 
two  very  distinct  persons — a  German  by  nature,  and  a  French- 
man by  education.  All  that  the  German  did  in  a  German 
kingdom  has  left  durable  traces ;  all  that  the  Frenchman  at- 
tempted has  failed  of  producing  fruit. 

Frederick  the  Second  was  fashioned  by  the  French  philoso- 
phy of  the  eighteenth  century ;  this  philosophy  does  injury  to 
nations,  when  it  dries  up  in  them  the  source  of  enthusiasm ; 
but  where  there  exists  such  a  thing  as  an  absolute  monarch,  it 
is  to  be  wished  that  liberal  principles  may  temper  in  him  the 
action  of  despotism.  Frederick  introduced  into  the  north  of 
Germany  the  liberty  of  thinking ;  the  Reformation  had  already 
introduced  there  the  spirit  of  inquiry,  though  not  of  toleration ; 
and,  by  a  singular  contradiction,  inquiry  was  only  permitted  in 
imperiously  prescribing,  by  anticipation,  the  result  of  that  in- 
quiry. Frederick  caused  to  be  held  in  honor  the  liberty  of 
speaking  and  writing,  not  only  by  means  of  those  poignant  and 
witty  pleasantries,  which  have  so  much  effect  on  men  when 
proceeding  from  the  lips  of  a  king ;  but  also,  still  more  power- 


106  MADAME    PK    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

fully,  by  his  example  ;  for  lie  never  punished  those  who  libelled 
him,  whether  in  speech  or  by  publication,  and  he  displayed  in 
almost  all  his  actions  the  philosophy  whose  spirit  he  professed. 
He  established  an  order  and  an  economy  in  the  administration 
which  have  constituted  the  internal  strength  of  Prussia,  in  spite 
of  all  its  natural  disadvantages.  There  was  never  a  king  who 
displayed  so  much  simplicity  in  his  private  life,  and  even  in  his 
court :  he  thought  himself  bound  to  spare  as  much  as  possible 
the  wealth  of  his  subjects.  He  entertained  on  all  subjects  a 
feeling  of  justice,  which  the  misfortunes  of  his  youth  and  the 
severity  of  his  father  had  engraved  on  his  heart.  This  feeling 
is  perhaps  the  most  rare  of  all  a  conqueror's  virtues ;  for  they 
in  general  would  rather  be.  esteemed  generous  than  just,  be- 
cause justice  supposes  some  sort  of  equal  relation  with  others. 

Frederick  had  rendered  the  courts  of  justice  so  independent, 
that,  during  his  whole  life,  and  under  the  reign  of  his  succes- 
sors, they  have  been  often  seen  to  decide  in  favor  of  the  subject 
against  the  sovereign,  in  suits  relating  to  political  interests.  It 
is  true  that  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  introduce  injustice 
into  a  German  tribunal.  The  Germans  are  well  enough  dis- 
posed to  make  themselves  systems  for  abandoning  politics  to 
arbitrary  power ;  but  in  questions  of  jurisprudence  or  adminis- 
tration, you  cannot  get  into  their  heads  any  principles  but  those 
of  justice.  Their  very  spirit  of  method,  to  say  nothing  of  their 
uprightness  of  heart,  secures  equity  by  the  establishment  of 
order  in  all  things.  Nevertheless,  Frederick  deserves  praise 
for  his  integrity  in  the  internal  government  of  his  country ;  and 
this  is  one  of  his  best  titles  to  the  admiration  of  posterity. 

Frederick  did  not  possess  a  feeling  heart,  but  he  had  good- 
ness of  disposition ;  and  qualities  of  a  universal  nature  are 
those  which  are  most  suitable  to  sovereigns.  Nevertheless, 
this  goodness  of  Frederick's  was  as  dangerous  as  that  of  the 
lion,  and  one  felt  the  talon  of  power  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
amiable  grace  and  coquetry  of  spirit.  Men  of  independent 
characters  could,  with  difficulty,  submit  themselves  to  the  free- 
dom which  this  master  fancied  he  gave  them,  to  the  familiarity 
which  he  imagined  that  he  permitted  them  ;  and,  even  in  their 


PRUSSIA.  107 

admiration  of  him,  they  felt  that  they  breathed  more  freely  at 
a  distance. 

Frederick's  greatest  misfortune  was,  that  he  had  not  sufficient 
respect  for  religion  or  morals.  His  tastes  "were  cynical.  Not- 
withstanding the  love  of  glory  had  given  an  elevation  to  his  ideas, 
his  licentious  mode  of  expressing  himself  on  the  most  sacred 
subjects  was  the  cause  that  his  very  virtues  failed  of  inspiring 
confidence ;  they  were  felt  and  approved,  yet  they  were  believed 
to  be  the  virtues  of  calculation.  Every  thing  in  Frederick  ap- 
peared necessarily  to  imply  a  political  tendency ;  thus,  the 
good  that  he  did  ameliorated  the  state  of  the  country,  but  did 
not  improve  the  morality  of  the  nation.  He  affected  unbelief, 
and  made  a  mockery  of  female  virtue ;  and  nothing  was  so  un- 
suitable to  the  German  character  as  this  manner  of  thinking. 
Frederick,  in  setting  his  subjects  free  from  what  he  called  their 
prejudices,  extinguished  in  them  the  spirit  of  patriotism ;  for, 
to  attach  inhabitants  to  countries  naturally  gloomy  and  barren, 
they  must  be  governed  by  opinions  and  principles  of  great 
severity.  In  those  sandy  regions,  where  the  earth  produces 
nothing  but  firs  and  heaths,  man's  strength  consists  in  his  soul ; 
and  if  you  take  from  him  that  which  constitutes  the  life  of  this 
soul,  his  religious  feelings,  he  will  no  longer  feel  any  thing  but 
disgust  for  his  melancholy  country. 

Frederick's  inclination  for  war  may  be  excused  by  great  po- 
litical motives.  His  kingdom,  such  as  he  received  it  from  his 
father,  could  not  have  held  together ;  and  it  was  almost  for  its 
preservation  that  he  aggrandized  it.  He  had  two  millions  and 
a  half  of  subjects  when  he  ascended  the  throne,  and  left  six 
millions  at  his  death. 

The  need  he  had  of  an  army  prevented  him  from  encour- 
aging in  the  nation  a  public  spirit  of  imposing  energy  and 
unity.  The  government  of  Frederick  was  founded  on  military 
strength  and  civil  justice :  he  reconciled  them  to  each  other 
by  his  wisdom ;  but  it  was  difficult  to  combine  two  spirits  of  a 
nature  so  opposite.  Frederick  wished  his  soldiers  to  be  mere 
military  machines,  blindly  actuated,  and  his  subjects  to  be  en- 
lightened citizens,  capable  of  patriotism.  He  did  not  establish 


108  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

in  the  towns  of  Prussia  secondary  authorities,  municipalities 
such  as  existed  in  the  rest  of  Germany,  lest  the  immediate  ac- 
tion of  the  military  service  might  be  impeded  by  them ;  and 
yet  he  wished  that  there  should  be  enough  of  the  spirit  of  lib- 
erty in  his  empire  to  make  obedience  appear  voluntary.  He 
wished  the  military  state  to  be  the  first  of  all,  since  it  was  that 
which  was  most  necessary  to  him ;  but  he  would  have  desired 
that  the  civil  state  might  support  itself  collaterally  with  the 
military.  Frederick,  in  short,  desired  to  meet  everywhere  with 
supports,  and  to  encounter  obstacles  nowhere. 

The  wonderful  amalgamation  of  all  classes  of  society  is 
hardly  to  be  obtained  but  through  the  influence  of  a  system  of 
laws  the  same  for  all.  A  man  may  combine  opposite  elements, 
so  as  to  make  them  proceed  together  in  the  same  direction, 
"  but  at  his  death  they  are  disunited." '  The  ascendency  ob- 
tained by  Frederick,  and  supported  by  the  wisdom  of  his  suc- 
cessors, was  still  manifested  for  a  time ;  but  in  Prussia  there 
were  always  to  be  perceived  two  distinct  nations,  badly  united 
together  to  form  an  entire  one ;  the  army,  and  the  civil  state. 
The  prejudices  of  nobility  subsisted  at  the  same  time  with  lib- 
eral opinions  of  the  most  decided  stamp.  In  short,  the  figure 
of  Prussia  presented  itself,  like  that  of  Janus,  under  a  double 
face — the  one  military,  the  other  philosophical. 

One  of  the  greatest  errors  committed  by  Frederick,  was  that 
of  lending  himself  to  the  partition  of  Poland.  Silesia  had  been 
acquired  by  the  force  of  arms ;  Poland  was  a  Machiavelian 
conquest,  "  and  it  could  never  be  hoped  that  subjects,  so  got 
by  slight  of  hand,  would  be  faithful  to  the  juggler  who  called 
himself  their  sovereign."1  Besides,  the  Germans  and  Sclavo- 
nians  can  never  be  united  by  indissoluble  ties ;  and,  when  a 
nation  admits  alien  enemies  into  its  bosom,  as  natural  subjects, 
she  does  herself  almost  as  much  injury  as  in  receiving  them 
for  masters ;  for  the  political  body  then  no  longer  retains  that 
bond  of  union,  which  personifies  the  State,  and  constitutes 
patriotic  sentiment. 

»  Suppressed  by  the  censors.  »  Ibid. 


PKTJSSIA.  109 

These  observations  respecting  Prussia,  all  bear  upon  the 
means  which  she  possessed  of  maintaining  and  defending  her- 
self; for  there  was  nothing  in  her  internal  government  that 
was  prejudicial  to  her  independence,  or  her  security ;  in  no 
country  of  Europe  was  knowledge  held  in  higher  honor,  in 
none  was  liberty,  at  least  in  fact,  if  not  by  law,  more  scrupu- 
lously respected.  I  did  not  meet,  throughout  Prussia,  with 
any  individual  that  complained  of  arbitrary  acts  in  the  govern- 
ment, and  yet  there  would  not  have  been  the  least  danger  in 
complaining  of  them ;  but  when,  in  a  social  state,  happiness 
itself  is  only  what  may  be  called  a  fortunate  accident,  when  it 
is  not  founded  on  durable  institutions  which  secure  to  the  hu- 
man race  its  force  and  its  dignity,  patriotism  has  little  perse- 
verance, and  men  easily  abandon  to  chance  the  advantages 
which  are  believed  to  be  owing  to  chance  alone.  Frederick  II, 
one  of  the  noblest  gifts  of  that  chance  which  seemed  to  watch 
over  the  destiny  of  Prussia,  had  known  how  to  make  himself 
sincerely  beloved  in  his  country ;  and,  since  he  is  no  more, 
they  still  cherish  his  memory  as  if  he  were  still  alive.  The 
fate  of  Prussia,  however,  has  but  too  well  taught  us  what  is 
the  real  influence  even  of  a  great  man,  who,  during  his  reign, 
has  not  disinterestedly  labored  to  make  his  country  independ- 
ent of  his  personal  services :  the  entire  nation  confidently  re- 
lied on  its  sovereign  for  its  very  principle  of  existence,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  that  nation  itself  must  come  to  an  end  with  him. 

Frederick  II  would  have  wished  to  confine  all  the  literature 
of  his  dominions  to  French  literature.  He  set  no  value  on  that 
of  Germany.  Doubtless  it  was,  during  his  time,  by  many  de- 
grees short  of  having  attained  its  present  distinction ;  yet  a 
German  prince  ought  to  encourage  every  thing  German. 
Frederick  formed  the  project  of  rendering  Berlin  in  some  re- 
spects similar  to  Paris,  and  flattered  himself  with  having  found 
among  the  French  refugees  some  writers  sufficiently  distin-  1 , 
guished  to  create  a  French  world  of  literature.  Such  a  hope  ' 
was  necessarily  to  be  deceived ;  factitious  culture  never  pros- 
pers ;  some  individuals  may  struggle  against  the  difficulties  of 
nature,  but  the  mass  always  follows  the  bent  she  gives  them. 


110  MADAME  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY. 

Frederick  did  a  real  injury  to  his  country  by  proclaiming  his 
contempt  for  the  genius  of  the  Germans.  It  has  thence  result- 
ed that  the  Germanic  body  has  often  conceived  unjust  suspi- 
cions against  Prussia  herself. 

Many  German  writers,  of  deserved  celebrity,  made  them- 
selves known  towards  the  end  of  Frederick's  reign ;  but  the 
unfavorable  opinion,  which  this  great  monarch  had  imbibed  in 
his  youth  against  the  literature  of  his  country,  was  never  ef- 
faced ;  and,  a  few  years  before  his  death,  he  composed  a  little 
work,  in  which  he  proposed,  among  other  changes,  to  add  a 
vowel  at  the  end  of  every  verb,  to  soften  the  Teutonic  dialect. 
This  German,  in  an  Italian  mask,  would  produce  the  most 
comic  effect  in  the  world ;  but  no  monarch,  even  in  the  East, 
possesses  so  much  power  as  to  influence  in  this  manner,  not 
the  sense,  but  the  sound  of  every  word  that  shall  be  pronounced 
throughout  his  dominions. 

Klopstock  has  nobly  reproached  Frederick  with  his  having 
neglected  the  German  muses,  who,  unknown  to  him,  essayed 
to  proclaim  his  glory.  Frederick  did  not  at  all  divine  the  real 
character  of  the  Germans  in  literature  and  philosophy.  He 
did  not  give  them  credit  for  being  inventors.  He  wished  to 
discipline  men  of  letters  as  he  did  his  armies.  "  We  must 
conform  ourselves,"  said  he,  in  bad  German,  in  his  instructions 
to  the  Academy, "  to  the  method  of  Boerhaave  in  medicine,  to 
that  of  Locke  in  metaphysics,  and  that  of  Thomasius  in  natural 
history."  His  instructions  were  not  followed.  He  never 
doubted  that,  of  all  men,  the  Germans  were  those  who  were 
least  capable  of  being  subjected  to  the  routine  of  letters  and 
philosophy  :  nothing  announced  in  them  that  boldness  which 
they  have  since  displayed  in  the  field  of  abstraction.1 


*  "  Thus  the  two  German  Emperors,  Fritz  [Frederick  the  Great]  and 
Wolfgang  [Goethe],  held  no  spiritual  congress ;  perhaps  no  good  result 
could  have  been  elicited  by  their  meeting.  Yet  they  were,  each  in  his  own 
sphere,  the  two  most  potent  men  then  reigning.  Fritz  did  not  directly  as- 
sist the  literature  of  his  country,  but  his  indirect  influence  has  been  indi- 
cated by  Griepenkerl.  He  awoke  the  Germans  from  their  sleep  by  the 
rolling  of  drums ;  those  who  least  liked  the  clang  of  arms  or  the '  divisions 


BERLIN.  Ill 

Frederick  considered  his  subjects  as  strangers,  and  the 
Frenchmen  of  genius  as  his  countrymen.  Nothing,  it  must  be 
confessed,  is  more  natural  than  that  he  should  have  let  himself 
be  seduced  by  whatever  was  brilliant  and  solid  in  the  French 
writers  of  this  epoch  ;  nevertheless,  Frederick  would  have  con- 
tributed still  more  effectually  to  the  glory  of  his  country,  if  he 
had  understood  and  developed  the  faculties  peculiar  to  the  na- 
tion he  governed.  But  how  resist  the  influence  of  his  times  ? 
and  where  is  the  man,  whose  genius  itself  is  not,  in  many  re- 
spects, the  work  of  the  age  he  lives  in  ? 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

BERLIN. 

BERLIN  is  a  large  city,  with  very  broad  streets,  perfectly 
straight,  the  houses  handsome,  and  the  general  appearance 
regular ;  but,  as  it  has  been  but  lately  rebuilt,  it  displays  no 
traces  of  ancient  times.  Not  one  Gothic  monument  remains 
amid  its  modern  habitations ;  and  nothing  of  the  antique  in- 
terrupts the  uniformity  of  this  newly  created  courtry.  What 
can  be  better,  it  will  be  said,  either  for  buildings  or  for  insti- 
tutions, than  not  to  be  incumbered  with  ruins  ?  I  feel  that, 
in  America,  I  should  love  new  cities  and  new  laws  :  there,  na- 
ture and  liberty  speak  so  immediately  to  the  soul,  as  to  leave 
no  want  of  recollections ;  but,  in  this  old  world  of  ours,  the 
past  is  needful  to  us.  Berlin,  an  entirely  modern  city,  beauti- 
ful as  it  is,  makes  no  serious  impression ;  it  discovers  no  marks 


of  a  battle-field,'  were  nevertheless  awakened  to  the  fact  that  something 
important  was  going  on  in  life,  and  they  rubbed  their  sleepy  eyes,  and 
tried  to  see  a  little  into  that.  The  roll  of  drums  has  this  merit,  at  all  events, 
that  it  draws  men  from  their  library  table  to  the  window,  and  so  makes  them 
look  out  upon  the  moving,  living  world  of  action,  wherein  the  erudite  may 
see  a  '  considerable  sensation'  made  even  by  men  unable  to  conjugate  a 
Greek  verb  in  '  /«.'  "— (G.  H.  Lewes'  Li/ex/  Goethe,  vol.  i.  p.  896.)— Ed. 


112  MADAilE   DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

of  the  history  of  the  country,  or  of  the  character  of  its  inhab- 
itants, and  its  magnificent  new-built  houses  seem  destined  only 
for  the  convenient  assemblage  of  pleasures  and  industry.  The 
finest  palaces  in  Berlin  are  built  of  brick ;  hardly  any  stone  is 
to  be  found  even  in  its  triumphal  arches.  The  capital  of  Prus- 
sia resembles  Prussia  itself;  its  buildings  and  institutions  are 
of  the  age  of  man,  and  no  more,  because  a  single  man  was 
their  founder. 

The  court,  over  which  a  beautiful  and  virtuous  queen  pre- 
sides, was  at  once  imposing  and  simple ;  the  royal  family, 
which  threw  itself  voluntarily  into  society,  knew  how  to  mix 
with  dignity  among  the  nation  at  large,  and  became  identified 
in  all  hearts  with  their  native  country.  The  king  had  found 
the  means  of  fixing  at  Berlin,  J.  von  Miiller,  Ancillon,  Fichte, 
Humboldt,  Hufeland,  a  multitude  of  men  distinguished  in  dif- 
ferent ways;  in  short,  all  the  elements  of  a  delightful  society, 
and  of  a  powerful  nation,  were  there ;  but  these  elements  were 
not  yet  combined  or  united  together.  Genius  was  attended 
with  much  more  success,  however,  at  Berlin  than  at  Vienna ; 
the  hero  of  the  nation,  Frederick,  having  been  a  man  of  uncom- 
mon brilliancy,  the  reflection  of  his  name  still  inspired  a  love 
for  every  thing  that  resembled  him.  Maria  Theresa  did  not 
give  a  similar  impulse  to  the  people  of  Vienna ;  and  whatever, 
in  Joseph,  bore  the  least  appearance  of  genius,  was  sufficient 
to  disgust  them  with  it.1 


1  "  The  city  is  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  dreary  plain  of  sand,  destitute 
of  either  beauty  or  fertility.  It  is  surprising  that  the  foundation  of  a  town 
should  ever  have  been  laid  on  so  uninteresting  a  spot,  but  it  is  far  more 
wonderful  that  it  should  have  grown  up,  notwithstanding,  into  the  flour- 
ishing capital  of  a  great  empire.  Previous  to  the  reign  of  Frederick  I,  it 
was  an  unimportant  town,  confined  to  the  right  bank  of  the  Spree,  and  to 
the  island  on  which  the  palace  and  museum  now  stand.  Since  that  time, 
in  one  hundred  and  fifty  years,  its  population  has  increased  tenfold,  and 
its  limits  have  extended  until  its  walls  are  twelve  miles  in  circumference. 
Frederick  the  Great,  being  ambitious  to  possess  a  capital  proportionate  to 
the  rapid  increase  of  his  dominions,  at  once  inclosed  a  vast  space  with 
walls,  and  ordered  it  to  be  filled  with  houses.  As  the  population  was 
scanty,  the  only  mode  of  complying  with  the  wishes  of  the  sovereign  was 
by  stretching  the  houses  over  as  wide  a  space  as  possible.  In  consequence, 


BERLIN.  113 

No  spectacle  in  all  Germany  was  equal  to  that  which  Berlin 
presented.  This  town,  situated  in  the  centre  of  the  north  of 
Germany,  may  be  considered  as  its  focus  of  enlightenment. 
Sciences  and  letters  are  cultivated  there ;  and  at  dinners,  both 
ministerial  and  private,  where  the  men  meet  together,  the 

some  of  the  handsomest  hotels  are  only  two  stories  high,  and  have  as 
many  as  twenty  windows  on  a  line.  The  streets  are  necessarily  broad,  and 
therefore  generally  appear  empty.  Owing  to  the  want  of  stone  in  the 
neighborhood,  the  larger  part  even  of  the  public  buildings  are  of  brick 
and  plaster.  The  flatness  of  the  ground,  and  the  sandy  soil,  produce  in- 
conveniences which  the  stranger  will  not  be  long  in  detecting.  There  is 
so  little  declivity  in  the  surface,  that  the  water  in  the  drains,  instead  of 
running  off,  stops  and  stagnates  in  the  streets.  In  the  Friedrichsstrasse, 
which  is  two  miles  long,  there  is  not  a  foot  of  descent  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  In  the  summer  season,  the  heat  of  the  sun  reflected  by  the  sand 
becomes  intolerable,  and  the  noxious  odors  in  the  streets  are  very  unwhole- 
some as  well  as  unpleasant.  A  third  nuisance  is,  that  the  streets  are  only 
partially  provided  with  trottoirs,  so  narrow  that  two  persons  can  scarcely 
walk  abreast ;  and  many  are  infamously  paved  with  sharp  stones,  upon 
which  it  is  excruciating  pain  to  tread. 

"  The  mere  passing  traveller,  in  search  of  amusement,  will  exhaust  the 
sights  of  Berlin  perhaps  in  a  fortnight,  and  afterwards  find  it  tedious  with- 
out the  society  of  friends.  The  stranger  coming  to  reside  here,  provided 
with  good  introductions,  may  find  an  agreeable  literary  society,  composed 
of  the  most  talented  men  in  Germany,  whom  the  government  has  the  art 
of  drawing  around  it  in  an  official  capacity,  or  as  professors  of  the  Univer- 
sity. The  names  of  Humboldt,  the  traveller ;  Savigny,  the  jurist ;  Kanke 
and  Raumer,  the  historians ;  Ehrenberg,  the  naturalist ;  Von  Buch,  the 
geologist;  Ritter,  the  geographer;  Grimm,  the  philologist,  and  editor  of 
the  Kinder  and  Haus-Marchen ;  Schelling,  the  metaphysical  writer ;  Cor- 
nelius, the  painter ;  Tieck,  the  author  (who  spends  three  months  of  the 
year  here,  the  king  having  granted  him  a  pension  on  that  condition),  all 
residents  of  Berlin,  enjoy  a  European  celebrity.  The  society  of  the  upper 
classes  is  on  the  whole  not  very  accessible  to  strangers,  nor  is  hospitality 
exercised  to  the  same  extent  among  them  as  in  England,  chiefly  because 
their  fortunes  are  limited.  The  hotels  of  the  diplomatic  corps  are  an  ex- 
ception, and  in  them  the  most  agreeable  soirees  are  held  in  the  winter 
season. 

"  Notwithstanding  the  disadvantages  of  situation,  Berlin  is  certainly  one 
of  the  finest  cities  in  Europe.  Some  of  the  most  splendid  buildings  are 
concentrated  in  a  very  small  space  between  the  palace  (Schloss)  and  the 
Brandenburg  Gate,  or  very  near  it.  Few  European  capitals  can  show  so 
much  architectural  splendor  as  is  seen  in  the  colossal  Palace,  the  beaiitiful 
colonnade  of  the  Museum,  the  chaste  Guard-house,  the  great  Opera,  and 
the  University  opposite." — (Murray's  Hand-Book  for  Northern  Germany, 
p. 


114:  MADAME   DE    STAEL'g    GERMANY. 

separation  of  ranks,  so  prejudicial  to  Germany,  is  not  rigidly 
enforced,  but  people  of  talent  of  all  classes  are  collected.  This 
happy  mixture  is  not  yet,  however,  extended  to  the  society  of 
women.  There  are  among  them  some  whose  talents  and 
accomplishments  attract  every  thing  that  is  distinguished  to 
their  circles ;  but,  generally  speaking,  at  Berlin,  as  well  as 
throughout  the  rest  of  Germany,  female  society  is  not  well 
amalgamated  with  that  of  the  men.  The  great  charm  of  social 
life,  in  France,  consists  in  the  art  of  perfectly  reconciling  all 
the  advantages  which  the  wit  of  the  men  and  women  united 
can  confer  upon  conversation.  At  Berlin,  the  men  rarely  con- 

""  verse  except  with  each  other ;  the  military  condition  gives 
them  a  sort  of  rudeness,  which  prevents  them  from  taking  any 
trouble  about  the  society  of  women. 

When  there  are,  as  in  England,  great  political  interests  to 
be  discussed,  the  societies  of  men  are  always  animated  by  a 
noble  feeling  common  to  all ;  but  in  countries  where  there  is 
no  representative  government,  the  presence  of  the  women  is 
necessary,  to  preserve  all  the  sentiments  of  delicacy  and  purity, 

1  without  which  the  love  of  the  beautiful  must  perish.  The  in- 
fluence of  women  is  yet  more  salutary  to  the  soldier  than  to 
the  citizen ;  the  empire  of  law  can  subsist  without  them  much 
better  than  that  of  honor,  for  they  can  alone  preserve  the  spirit 

!___  of  chivalry  in  a  monarchy  purely  military.  Ancient  France 
owed  all  her  splendor  to  this  potency  of  public  opinion,  of 
which  female  ascendency  was  the  cause. 

Society  at  Berlin  consisted  only  of  a  very  small  number  of 
men,  a  circumstance  which  almost  always  spoils  the  members 
of  it  by  depriving  them  of  the  anxiety  and  of  the  necessity  to 
please.  Officers,  who  obtained  leave  of  absence  to  pass  a  few 
months  in  town,  sought  nothing  there  but  the  dance  or  the 
gaming-table.  The  mixture  of  two  languages  was  detrimental 
to  conversation,  and  the  great  assemblies  at  Berlin  afforded  no 
higher  interest  than  those  at  Vienna ;  or  rather,  in  point  of 
manners,  there  was  more  of  the  custom  of  the  world  at  the 
latter  than  at  the  former  of  those  capitals.  Notwithstanding 
this,  the  liberty  of  the  press,  the  assemblage  of  men  of  genius, 


BERLIN.  115 

the  knowledge  of  literature,  and  of  the  German  language, 
which  had  been  generally  diffused  of  late,  contributed  to  ren- 
der Berlin  the  real  metropolis  of  modern,  of  enlightened  Ger- 
many. The  French  refugees  somewhat  weakened  that  entirely 
German  impulse  of  which  Berlin  is  susceptible  ;  they  still  pre- 
served a  superstitious  reverence  for  the  age  of  Louis  XIV ; 
their  ideas  respecting  literature  became  faded  and  petrified  at 
a  distance  from  the  country  which  gave  them  birth ;  yet,  in 
general,  Berlin  would  have  assumed  a  great  ascendency  over 
public  spirit  in  Germany,  if  there  had  not  still  continued  to 
exist  (I  must  repeat  it)  a  feeling  of  resentment  for  the  con- 
tempt which  Frederick  had  evinced  towards  the  German 
nation. 

The  philosophic  writers  have  often  indulged  unjust  preju- 
dices against  .Prussia;  they  chose  to  see  in  her  nothing  but 
one  vast  barrack,  and  yet  it  was  in  this  very  point  of  view  that 
she  was  least  worthy  of  observation.  The  interest  which  this 
country  really  deserved  to  excite,  consisted  in  the  enlightenment, 
the  spirit  of  justice,  and  the  sentiments  of  independence,  which 
are  to  be  met  with  in  a  number  of  individuals  of  all  classes ; 
but  the  bond  of  union  of  these  noble  qualities  had  not  yet 
been  formed.  The  newly  constructed  State  could  derive  no 
security,  either  from  duration  or  from  the  character  of  the 
materials  which  composed  it. 

The  humiliating  punishments  generally  resorted  to  among 
the  German  soldiery  stifled  the  sentiments  of  honor  in  the 
minds  of  the  soldiers.  Military  habits  have  rather  injured 
than  assisted  the  warlike  spirit  of  the  Prussians.  These  habits 
were  founded  on  those  ancient  methods  which  separated  the 
army  from  the  body  of  the  nation,  while  in  our  days,  there  is 
no  real  strength  except  in  national  character.  This  character, 
in  Prussia,  is  more  noble  and  more  exalted  than  late  events 
might  lead  us  to  imagine ;  "  and  the  ardent  heroism  of  the 
unhappy  Prince  Louis  ought  still  to  shed  some  glory  over  his 
companions  in  arms." ' 

1  Suppressed  by  the  censors.    I  straggled  during  several  days  to  obtain 


116  MADAME    DE    STAEL/S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

OF    THE    GERMAN    UNIVERSITIES. 

ALL  the  north  of  Germany  is  filled  with  the  most  learned 
universities  in  Europe.  In  no  country,  not  even  in  England, 
are  there  so  many  means  of  instruction,  and  of  bringing  the 
faculties  to  perfection.  How  is  it  then  that  the  nation  is 
wanting  in  energy,  that  it  appears  generally  dull  and  confined, 
even  while  it  contains  within  itself  a  small  number,  at  least,  of 
men  who  .are  the  most  intellectual  in  all  Europe  ?  It  is  to  the 
nature  of  its  government,  not  to  education,  that  this  singular 
pcontrast  must  be  attributed.  Intellectual  education  is  perfect 
in  Germany,  but  every  thing  there  passes  in  theory :  practical 
education  depends  solely  on  affairs ;  it  is  by  action  alone  that 
the  character  acquires  the  firmness  necessary  to  direct  in  the 
conduct  of  life.  Character  is  an  instinct ;  it  has  more  alliance 
with  nature  than  the  understanding,  and  yet  circumstances 
alone  give  men  the  occasion  of  developing  it.  Governments 
are  the  real  instructors  of  peoples ;  and  public  education  itself, 
however  good,  may  create  men  of  letters,  but  not  citizens,  war- 
riors, or  statesmen.1 

the  liberty  of  rendering  this  homage  to  Prince  Louis,  and  I  represented 
that  it  was  placing  the  glory  of  the  French  in  relief,  to  praise  the  bravery 
of  those  whom  they  had  conquered ;  but  it  appeared  more  simple  to  the 
censors  to  permit  nothing  of  the  kind. 

1  "  By  Germans  themselves,  German  universities  are  admitted  to  have 
been  incomparably  inferior  to  the  Dutch  and  Italian  universities,  until  the 
foundation  of  the  University  of  Gottingen.  Muenchhausen  was  for  Got- 
tingen  and  the  German  universities,  what  Douza  was  for  Leyden  and  the 
Dutch.  But  with  this  difference:  Leyden  was  the  model  on  which  the 
younger  universities  of  the  Eepublic  were  constructed;  Gottingen,  the 
model  on  which  the  older  universities  of  the  Empire  were  reformed.  Both 
were  statesmen  and  scholars.  Both  proposed  a  high  ideal  for  the  schools 
founded  under  their  auspices ;  and  both,  as  first  curators,  labored  with  par- 
amount influence  in  realizing  this  ideal  for  the  same  long  period  of  thirty- 


THE    GERMAN    UNIVERSITIES.  117 

In  Germany,  the  genius  of  philosophy  goes  further  than  any- 
where else;  nothing  arrests  it,  and  even  the  want  of  a  political 
career,  so  fatal  to  the  mass,  affords  a  freer  scope  to  the  think- 
ing part  of  the  nation.  But  there  is  an  immense  distance  be- 
tween the  first  and  second  orders  of  minds,  because  there  is  no 
interest,  no  object  of.  exertion,  for  men  who  do  not  rise  to  the 
height  of  conceptions  the  most  vast.  In  Germany,  a  man  who 
is  not  occupied  with  the  universe,  has  really  nothing  to  do. 

The  German  universities  possess  an  ancient  reputation  of  a 
date  several  centuries  antecedent  to  the  Reformation.  Since 
that  epoch,  the  Protestant  universities  have  been  incontestably 
superior  to  the  Catholic,  and  the  literary  glory  of  Germany 
depends  altogether  upon  these  institutions.'  The  English  uni- 


two  years.  Under  their  patronage,  Leyden  and  Gottingen  took  the  high- 
est place  among  the  universities  of  Europe,  and  both  have  only  lost  their 
relative  supremacy  by  the  application  in  other  seminaries  of  the  same 
measures  which  had  at  first  determined  their  superiority. 

"From  the  mutual  relations  of  the  seminaries,  states,  and  people  of  the 
Empire,  the  resort  to  a  German  university  has  in  general  been  always 
mainly  dependent  on  its  comparative  excellence ;  and  as  the  interest  of  the 
several  States  was  involved  in  the  prosperity  of  their  several  universities, 
the  improvement  of  one  of  these  schools  necessarily  occasioned  the  im- 
provement of  the  others.  No  sooner,  therefore,  had  Gottingen  risen  to  a 
decided  superiority  through  her  system  of  curatorial  patronage,  and  other 
subordinate  improvements,  than  the  different  governments  found  it  neces- 
sary to  place  their  seminaries,  as  far  as  possible,  on  an  equal  footing.  The 
nuisance  of  professorial  recommendation,  under  which  the  universities  had 
so  long  pined,  was  generally  abated ;  and  the  few  schools  in  which  it  has 
been  tolerated,  subsist  only  through  their  endowments,  and  stand  as  warn- 
ing monuments  of  its  effect.  Compare  wealthy  Greifswalde  with  poor 
Halle.  The  virtual  patronage  was  in  general  found  best  confided  to  a  small 
body  of  curators  ;  though  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  country,  and  the 
peculiar  organization  of  its  machinery  of  government,  have  recently  enabled 
at  least  one  of  the  German  States  to  concentrate,  without  a  violation  of  our 
principles,  its  academical  patronage  in  a  ministry  of  public  instruction. 
This,  however,  we  cannot  now  explain.  It  is  universally  admitted,  that 
since  their  rise  through  the  new  system  of  patronage,  the  universities  ot 
Germany  have  drawn  into  their  sphere  the  highest  talent  of  the  nation ; 
that  the  new  era  in  its  intellectual  life  has  been  wholly  determined  by 
them ;  as  from  them  have  emanated  almost  all  the  most  remarkable  prod- 
ucts of  German  genius  in  literature,  erudition,  philosophy,  and  science." 
— (Sir  Wm.  Hamilton's  Discwlsions,  p.  381.) — Ed. 

•  A  sketch  of  these  institutions  is  presented  to  us  in  a  work  on  the  suJ>- 


118  MADAME    DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

versities  have  singularly  contributed  to  diffuse  among  the  peo- 
ple of  England  that  knowledge  of  ancient  languages  and  litera- 
ture, which  gives  to  their  orators  and  statesmen  an  information 
so  liberal  and  so  brilliant.  It  is  a  mark  of  good  taste  to  be 
acquainted  with  other  things  besides  matters  of  business,  when 
one  is  thoroughly  acquainted  with  them  ;  and,  besides,  the 
eloquence  of  free  nations  attaches  itself  to  the  history  of  the 
Greeks  and  Romans,  as  to  that  of  ancient  fellow-countrymen. 
But  the  German  universities,  although  founded  on  principles 
analogous  to  those  of  England,  yet  differ  from  them  in  many 
respects  :  the  multitude  of  students  assembled  together  at  Got- 
tingen,  Halle,  Jena,  etc.,  formed  almost  a  free  body  in  the  State  : 
the  rich  and  poor  scholars  were  distinguished  from  each  other 
only  by  personal  merit ;  and  the  strangers,  who  came  from  all 
parts  of  the  world,  submitted  themselves  with  pleasure  to  an 
equality  which  natural  superiority  alone  could  change. 

There  was  independence,  and  even  military  spirit,  among 
the  students ;  and  if,  in  leaving  the  university,  they  had  been 
able  to  devote  themselves  to  the  interests  of  the  public,  their 
education  had  been  very  favorable  to  energy  of  character;  but 
they  returned  to  the  monotonous  and  domestic  habits  which 
prevail  in  Germany,  and  lost  by  degrees  the  impulse  and  reso- 
lution, which  their  university  life  had  inspired.  They  retained 
nothing  of  it,  but  a  stock  of  valuable  and  very  extensive  infor- 
mation. 

In  every  German  university,  several  professors  concurred  to- 
gether in  each  individual  branch  of  instruction  ;  thus,  the  mas- 
ters themselves  were  emulous  from  the  interest  which  they  felt 
in  attaining  a  superiority  over  each  other  in  the  number  of 
scholars  they  attracted.  Those  who  adopted  such  or  such  a 
particular  course,  medicine,  law,  etc.,  found  themselves  naturally 
impelled  to  require  information  on  other  subjects;  and  thence 
comes  the  universality  of  acquirements,  which  is  to  be  remarked 

ject,  just  published  by  M.  de  Villers,  an  author  who  is  always  found  at  the 
head  of  all  noble  and  generous  opinions ;  who  seems  called,  by  the  ele- 
gance of  his  mind  and  the  depth  of  his  studies,  to  be  the  representative  of  • 
France  in  Germany,  and  of  Germany  in  France. 


THE   GERMAN    UNIVERSITIES.  119 

in  almost  all  the  educated  men  of  Germany.  The  universities 
had  a  separate  property1  in  their  possessions  like  the  clergy ; 
they  had  a  jurisdiction  peculiar  to  themselves ;  and  it  was  a 
noble  idea  of  our  ancestors,  to  render  the  establishment  of  ed- 
ucation wholly  free.  Mature  age  can  submit  itself  to  circum- 
stances ;  but  at  the  entrance  into  life,  at  least,  a  young  man 
should  draw  all  his  ideas  from  an  uncorrupted  source. 

The  study  of  languages,  which,  in  Germany,  constitutes  the 
basis  of  education,  is  much  more  favorable  to  the  evolution  of 
the  faculties,  in  the  earlier  age,  than  that  of  mathematics,  or 
of  the  physical  sciences.  Pascal,  that  great  geometer,  whose 
profound  thought  hovered  over  the  science  which  he  peculiarly 
cultivated,  as  over  every  other,  has  himself  acknowledged  the 
insuperable  defects  of  those  minds  which  owe  their  first  for- 
mation to  the  mathematics.  This  study,  in  the  earlier  age, 
exercises  only  the- mechanism  of  intelligence.  In  boys,  occu- 
pied so  soon  with  calculations,  the  spring  of  imagination,  then 
so  fair  and  fruitful,  is  arrested ;  and  they  acquire  not  in  its 
stead,  any  pre-eminent  accuracy  of  thought, — for  arithmetic 
and  algebra  are  limited  to  the  teaching,  in  a  thousand  forms, 
propositions  always  identical.  The  problems  of  life  are  more  ] 
complicated ;  not  one  is  positive,  not  one  is  absolute  ;  we  must 
conjecture,  we  must  decide  by  the  aid  of  indications  and  as- 
sumptions, which  bear  no  analogy  with  the  infallible  procedure 
of  the  calculus.  J 

Demonstrated  truths  do  not  conduct  to  probable  truths; 
which  alone,  however,  serve  us  for  our  guide  in  business,  in 
the  arts,  and  in  society.  There  is,  no  doubt,  a  point  at  which 
the  mathematics  themselves  require  that  luminous  power  of 
invention,  without  which  it  is  impossible  to  penetrate  into  the 
secrets  of  nature.  At  the  summit  of  thought,  the  imaginations 
of  Homer  and  of  Newton  seem  to  unite ;  but  how  many  of  the 
young,  without  mathematical  genius,  consecrate  their  time  to 
this  science !  There  is  exercised  in  them  only  a  single  faculty, 

>  Most  of  the  continental  universities  have  been  stripped  of  their  estates 
within  the  last  fifty  years. — J£d. 


120  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

while  the  whole  moral  being  ought  to  be  under  development 
at  an  age  when  it  is  so  easy  to  derange  the  soul  and  the  body, 
in  attempting  to  strengthen  only  a  part. 

Nothing  is  less  applicable  to  life  than  a  mathematical  argu- 
ment. A  proposition,  couched  in  ciphers,  is  decidedly  either 
true  or  false.  In  all  other  relations  the  true  and  the  false  are 
so  intermingled,  that  frequently  instinct  alone  can  decide  us  in 
the  strife  of  motives,  sometimes  as  powerful  on  the  one  side  as 
on  the  other.  The  study  of  the  mathematics,  habituating  to 
certainty,  irritates  us  against  all  opinions  opposed  to  our  own ; 
while  that  which  is  the  most  important  for  the  conduct  of  this 
world  is  to  understand  others, — that  is,  to  comprehend  all  that 
leads  them  to  think  and  to  feel  differently  from  ourselves.  The 
mathematics  induce  us  to  take  no  account  of  any  thing  that  is 
not  proved,  while  primitive  truths,  those  which  are  seized  by 
feeling  and  genius,  are  not  susceptible  of  demonstration. 

In  fine,  mathematics,  subjecting  every  thing  to  calculation, 
inspire  too  much  reverence  for  force ;  and  that  sublime  energy, 
which  accounts  obstacles  as  nothing,  and  delights  in  sacrifices, 
does  not  easily  accord  with  the  kind  of  reason  that  is  devel- 
oped by  algebraic  combinations. 

It  seems  to  me,  then,  that,  for  the  advantage  of  morality  as 
well  as  that  of  the  understanding,  the  study  of  mathematics 
should  be  taken  in  its  course  as  a  part  of  complete  instruction, 
but  should  not  form  the  basis  of  education,  and  consequently 
the  determining  principle  of  character  and  the  soul. 

Among  systems  of  education,  there  are  likewise  some  which 
advise  us  to  begin  instruction  with  the  natural  sciences ;  in  the 
earlier  age  they  are  only  a  simple  diversion ;  they  are  learned 
rattles,  which  accustom  to  methodical  amusement  and  super- 
ficial study.  People  have  imagined  that  children  should  be 
spared  trouble  as  much  as  possible,  that  all  their  studies  should 
be  turned  into  recreations,  and  that,  in  due  time,  collections  of 
natural  history  should  be  given  to  them  for  playthings,  and 
physical  experiments  for  a  show.  It  seems  to  me  that  this 
also  is  an  erroneous  system.  Even  if  it  were  possible  that  a 
child  should  learn  any  thing  well  in  amusing  itself,  I  should 


THE    GERMAN   UNIVERSITIES.  121 

dtill  regret  that  its  faculty  of  attention  had  not  been  developed, 
— a  faculty  which  is  much  more  essential  than  an  additional 
acquirement.  I  know  they  will  tell  me  that  the  mathematics 
call  forth,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  the  power  of  application  ;  but 
they  do  not  habituate  the  mind  to  collect,  to  appreciate,  to 
concentrate ;  the  attention  they  require  is,  so  to  speak,  in  a 
straight  line ;  the  human  understanding  acts  in  mathematics 
like  a  spring  tending  in  a  uniform  direction.1 

Education,  conducted  by  way  of  amusement,  dissipates 
thought;  pain  in  every  thing  is  one  of  the  great  secrets  of 
nature :  the  mind  of  the  child  should  accustom  itself  to  the 
efforts  of  study,  as  our  soul  accustoms  itself  to  suffering.  It  is 
labor  which  leads  to  the  perfection  of  our  earlier,  as  grief  to 
that  of  our  later  age  :  it  is  to  be  wished,  no  doubt,  that  parents, 
like  destiny,  may  not  too  much  abuse  this  double  secret ;  but 
there  is  nothing  important  at  any  period  of  life  but  that  which 
acts  upon  the  very  central  point  of  existence,  and  we  are  too 
apt  to  consider  the  moral  being  in  detail.  You  may  teach, 
your  child  a  number  of  things  with  pictures  and  cards,  but 
you  will  not  teach  him  to  learn ;  and  the  habit  of  amusing 
himself,  which  you  direct  to  the  acquirement  of  knowledge, 
will  soon  take  another  direction  when  the  child  is  no  longer 
under  your  guidance. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  without  reason,  that  the  study  of  the 
ancient  and  modern  languages  has  been  made  the  basis  of  all 
the  establishments  of  education  which  have  formed  the  most 
able  men  throughout  Europe.  The  sense  of  an  expression  in 
a  foreign  language  is  at  once  a  grammatical  and  an  intellectual 
problem  ;  this  problem  is  altogether  proportioned  to  the  intel- 
lect of  the  child  :  at  first  he  understands  only  the  words,  then 
he  ascends  to  the  conception  of  the  phrase,  and  soon  after,  the 
charm  of  the  expression,  its  force,  its  harmony — all  the  quali- 
ties which  are  united  in  the  language  of  man,  are  gradually 


1  On  the  study  of  mathematics,  see  Sir  "Wm.  Hamilton's  Discussion*  on 
Philosophy  and  Literature,  Education,  and  University  Reform,  second  Lon- 
don edition,  pp.  263-340.—  Ed. 
VOL.  I.— 6 


MADAME   DE    STAEIS    GERMANY. 

perceived  by  the  child  while  engaged  in  translating.  He 
makes  a  trial  of  himself  with  the  difficulties  which  are  pre- 
sented to  him  by  two  languages  at  a  time ;  he  introduces  him- 
•self  to  ideas  in  succession,  compares  and  combines  different 
sorts  of  analogies  and  probabilities ;  and  the  spontaneous 
activity  of  the  mind,  that  alone  which  truly  develops  the 
faculty  of  thinking,  is  in  a  lively  manner  excited  by  this  study. 
The  number  of  faculties  which  it  awakens  at  the  same  time 
gives  it  the  advantage  over  every  other  species  of  labor,  and 
we  are  too  happy  in  being  able  to  employ  the  flexible  memory 
of  a  child  in  retaining  a  kind  of  knowledge,  without  which  he 
would  be  all  his  life  confined  to  the  circle  of  his  own  nation — 
a  circle  narrow  like  every  thing  which  is  exclusive. 

The  study  of  grammar  requires  the  same  sequence  and  the 
same  force  of  attention  as  the  mathematics,  but  it  is  much 
more  closely  connected  with  thought.  Grammar  unites  ideas, 
as  calculation  combines  figures ;  grammatical  logic  is  equally 
precise  with  that  of  algebra,  and  still  it  applies  itself  to  every 
thing  that  is  alive  in  the  mind :  words  are  at  the  same  time 
ciphers  and  images ;  they  are  both  slaves  and  free,  subject  to 
the  discipline  of  syntax  and  all  powerful  by  their  natural  signi- 
fication ;  thus  we  find  in  the  metaphysics  of  grammar  exact- 
ness of  reasoning  and  independence  of  thought  united ;  every 
thing  has  passed  by  means  of  words,  and  every  thing  is  again 
found  in  words  when  we  know  how  to  examine  them :  lan- 
guages are  inexhaustible  for  the  child  as  well  as  for  the  man, 
and  every  one  may  draw  from  them  whatever  he  stands  io 
need  of. 

The  impartiality  natural  to  the  spirit  of  the  Germans,  leads 
them  to  take  an  interest  in  the  literature  of  foreign  countries, 
and  we  find  few  men  a  little  elevated  above  the  common  class 
who  are  not  familiar  with  several  languages.  On  leaving 
school  they  are  in  general  already  well  acquainted  with  Latin 
and  even  with  Greek.  The  education  of  the  German  univer- 
sities, says  a  French  writer,  begins  where  that  of  most  nations 
in  Europe  ends.  Not  only  the  professors  are  men  of  astonish- 
ing information,  but  what  especially  distinguishes  them  is, 


INSTITUTIONS    FOR   EDUCATION.  123 

their  extreme  scrupulousness  in  instruction.  In  Germany,  men 
have  a  conscience  in  every  thing,  and  there  is  nothing  that 
can  dispense  with  it.  If  we  examine  the  course  of  human 
destiny,  we  shall  see  that  levity  of  disposition  may  lead  to 
every  thing  that  is  bad  in  this  world.  It  is  only  in  the  child 
that  levity  has  a  charm ;  it  seems  as  if  the  Creator  still  led 
the  child  by  the  hand,  and  assisted  him  to  tread  gently  over 
the  clouds  of  life.  But  when  time  abandons  man  to  himself, 
it  is  only  in  the  seriousness  of  his  soul  that  he  can  find 
thoughts,  sentiments,  and  virtues. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

OF   PARTICULAR   INSTITUTIONS    FOR   EDUCATION,    AND    CHARITA- 
BLE   ESTABLISHMENTS. 

IT  will  at  first  sight  appear  inconsistent  to  praise  the  ancient 
method,  which  made  the  study  of  languages  the  basis  of  educa- 
tion, and  at  the  same  time  to  consider  the  school  of  Pestalozzi1 
as  one  of  the  best  institutions  of  our  age  ;  I  think,  however, 

1  "  PESTALOZZI,  JOHANN  HEINBICH,  was  born  January  12, 1746,  at  Zurich, 
in  Switzerland.  His  father,  who  was  a  medical  .practitioner,  died  when 
Pestalozzi  was  about  six  years  old ;  but  his  mother,  with  the  assistance  of 
some  relatives,  procured  him  a  good  education.  He  studied  divinity  and 
afterwards  law,  but  instead  of  adopting  either  the  clerical  or  legal  profes- 
sion, turned  to  farming  as  a  means  of  support.  At  the  age  of  twenty-three 
he  married  the  daughter  of  a  merchant  of  Zurich,  purchased  a  small  landed 
property  which  he  named  Neuhof,  and  went  to  reside  upon  it  and  cultivate 
it.  The  reading  of  Eousseau's  '  Emile'  had  drawn  his  attention  to  the 
subject  of  education,  and  he  began  in  1775  to  carry  out  his  views  by  turn- 
ing his  farm  into  a  farm-school  for  instructing  the  children  of  the  poorer 
classes  of  the  vicinity  in  industrial  pursuits  as  well  as  in  reading  and  writ- 
ing. In  this,  however,  he  was  little  more  successful  than  he  had  been  in 
his  agricultural  operations :  at  the  end  of  two  years  his  school  was  broken 
up,  and  he  became  involved  in  debt.  In  order  to  relieve  himself  from  his 
incumbrances,  and  to  procure  the  means  of  subsistence,  he  produced  his 
popular  novel  of  '  Leinhardt  und  Gertrud,'  4  vols.,  Basel,  1781 ;  in  which, 
under  guise  of  depicting  actual  peasant  life,  he  sought  to  show  the  ueg- 


124  M.YDAMK    DE    STAKL*S    GKRMAXY. 

that  both  these  ways  of  viewing  the  subject  mav  be  reconciled. 
Of  all  studies,  that  which  with  Pestalozzi  produces  the  most 
satisfactory  result,  is  the  mathematics.  But  it  appears  to  me 
that  his  method  might  be  applied  to  many  other  branches'  of 
education,  and  produce  certain  and  rapid  progress.  Rousseau 

lected  condition  of  the  peasantry,  and  how  by  better  teaching  they  might 
be  improved  both  morally  and  physically.  It  was  read  with  general  inter- 
est, and  the  Agricultural  Society  of  Berne  awarded  him  for  it  a  gold  medal, 
which,  however,  his  necessities  compelled  him  at  once  to  sell.  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  '  Christoph  und  Else,'  Zurich,  1782.  During  1782-83,  he  edited 
a  periodical  entitled  'Das  ScLweizer-Blatt  fur  das  Volk'  ('Swiss-Journal 
for  the  People'),  which  was  collected  in  two  volumes.  '  Nachforschungen 
uber  den  Gang  der  Natur  in  der  Entwickelung  des  Menchengeschlechts' 
('  Investigations  into  the  Process  of  Nature  in  the  Improvement  of  the 
Human  Race')  appeared  at  Zurich,  in  1797 ;  and  he  wrote  also  other  works 
of  less  importance. 

"  In  1798,  with  the  assistance  of  the  Swiss  Directory,  he  established  a 
school  for  orphan  children  in  a  convent  which  had  belonged  to  the  Ursu- 
line  nuns  at  Stanz,  in  the  canton  of  Unterwalden.  Stanz  had  been  sacked 
by  a  French  army,  and  the  children  were  such  as  were  left  without  pro- 
tectors to  wander  about  the  country.  In  the  bare  and  deserted  convent 
he  had,  without  assistance  and  without  books,  to  teach  about  eighty  chil- 
dren of  from  four  to  ten  years  of  age.  He  was  driven  by  necessity  to  set 
the  elder  and  better  taught  children  to  teach  the  younger  and  more  igno- 
rant ;  and  thus  struck  out  the  monitorial  or  mutual-instruction  system  of 
teaching,  which,  just  about  the  same  time,  Lancaster  was  under  some- 
what similar  circumstances  led  to  adopt  in  England.  In  less  than  a  year, 
Pestalozzi' s  benevolent  labors  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  Aus- 
trians,  who  converted  his  orphan-house  into  a  military  hospital.  He  then 
removed  to  Burgdorf,  eleven  miles  northeast  from  Berne,  where  he  found- 
ed another  school  of  a  higher  class,  and  produced  his  educational  works. 
'Wie  Gertrud  ihre  Kinder  lehrt'  ('How  Gertrude  teaches  her  children'), 
Berne,  1801;  'Buch  der  Mutter5  ('Mothers'  Book'),  Berne,  1803;  and 
some  others.  During  this  period  of  political  excitement,  he  joined  the 
popular  party,  and  in  a  considerable  degree  incurred  the  disapproval  of 
the  upper  class.  In  1802,  the  people  of  the  canton  of  Berne  sent  him  as 
their  deputy  to  an  educational  conference  summoned  by  Bonaparte,  then 
First  Consul,  at  Paris.  His  establishment  at  Burgdorf  was  prosperous, 
became  celebrated,  and  was  resorted  to  from  all  parts  of  Europe  by  persons 
interested  in  education,  some  for  instruction,  and  others  for  inspection. 
In  1804,  he  removed  his  establishment  to  Munchen-Buchsee,  near  Hofwyl. 
in  order  to  operate  in  conjunction  with  Fellenberg,  who  had  a  similar  es- 
tablishment at  the  latter  place ;  but  the  two  educational  reformers  disa- 
greed, and  in  the  same  year  Pestalozzi  removed  to  Yverdun,  in  the  canton 
of  Vaud,  where  the  government  appropriated  to  his  use  an  unoccupied 
castle.  This  establishment  became  even  more  prosperous  and  more  cele- 


INSTITUTIONS   FOR    EDUCATION.  IZO 

was  persuaded  that  children,  before  the  age  of  twelve  or  thir- 
teen, had  not  an  understanding  equal  to  the  studies  that  were 
required  of  them,  or  rather  to  the  method  of  instruction  to 
which  they  were  subjected.  They  repeated  without  compre- 
hending, they  labored  without  gaining  instruction,  and  they 
frequently  gathered  nothing  from  their  education  but  the  habit 
of  performing  their  task  without  understanding  it,  and  of  evad- 
ing the  power  of  the  master  by  the  cunning  of  the  scholar. 
All  that  Rousseau  has  said  against  this  routine  education  is 
perfectly  true ;  but,  as  it  often  happens,  the  remedy  which  he 
proposes  is  still  worse  than  the  evil. 

A  child  who,  according  to  Rousseau's  system,  should  have 
learned  nothing  till  he  was  twelve  years  old,  would  have  lost 
six  of  the  most  valuable  years  of  his  life  ;  his  intellectual  organs 
would  never  acquire  that  flexibility  which  early  infancy  alone 
could  give  them.  Habits  of  idleness  would  be  so  deeply  rooted 
in  him,  that  he  would  be  rendered  much  more  unhappy  by 
speaking  to  him  of  industry,  for  the  first  time,  at  the  age  of 
twelve,  than  by  accustoming  him,  from  his  earliest  existence, 
to  consider  it  as  a  necessary  condition  of  life.  Besides,  that 
kind  of  care  and  attention  which  Rousseau  requires  of  the 
tutor,  in  order  to  supply  instruction  and  necessary  to  secure 


brated  than  the  one  at  Burgdorf,  and  had  a  still  greater  number  of  pupils 
and  of  visitors.  Unfortunately,  dissensions  arose  among  the  teachers,  in 
•which  Pestalozzi  himself  became  implicated,  and  which  embittered  the 
latter  years  of  his  life.  The  number  of  pupils  rapidly  diminished,  the 
establishment  became  a  losing  concern,  and  Pestalozzi  was  again  involved 
in  debt,  which  the  proceeds  of  the  complete  edition  of  his  works  ('Pesta- 
lozzi's  Sammtliche  Werke,'  15  vols.,  Stuttgard  and  Tubingen,  1819-26) 
hardly  sufficed  to  liquidate.  This  edition  was  the  result  of  a  subscrip- 
tion got  up  in  1818  for  the  publication  of  his  works,  the  names  of  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia,  the  King  of  Prussia,  and  the  King  of  Bavaria,  standing  at 
the  head  of  the  list. 

"  In  1825,  Pestalozzi  retired  from  his  laborious  duties  to  Neuhof,  where 
his  grandson  resided.  Here  he  wrote  his  '  Schwanengesang'  ('  Song  of  the 
[Dying]  Swan'),  1826 ;  and  '  Meine  Lebensschicksale  als  Vorsteher  meiner 
Erziehungsanstalten  in  Burgdorf  und  Iferten'  ('My  Life's  Fortunes  as 
Superintendent  of  my  Educational  Establishments  at  Burgdorf  and  Yver- 
dun'),  1826.  He  died  February  17, 1827,  at  BrQg,  in  the  canton  of  Aar- 
gau/'—  Ed. 


126  MADAME    DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

it,  would  oblige  every  man  to  devote  his  whole  life  to  the 
education  of  another  being,  and  grandfathers  alone  would  find 
themselves  at  liberty  to  begin  their  own  personal  career.  Such 
projects  are  chimerical ;  but  Pestalozzi's  method  is  real,  appli- 
cable, and  may  have  a  great  influence  on  the  future  progress 
of  the  human  mind. 

Rousseau  says,  with  much  reason,  that  children  do  not  com- 
prehend what  they  learn,  and  thence  concludes  that  they  ought 
to  learn  nothing.  Pestalozzi  has  profoundly  studied  the  cause 
of  this  want  of  comprehension  in  children,  and  by  his  method, 
ideas  are  simplified  and  graduated  so  as  to  be  brought  within 
the  reach  of  childhood,  and  the  mind  of  that  age  may  acquire, 
without  fatiguing  itself,  the  results  of  the  deepest  study.  In 
passing  with  exactness  through  all  the  degrees  of  reasoning, 
Pestalozzi  puts  the  child  in  a  state  to  discover  himself  what  we 
wish  to  teach  him. 

There  are  no  half  measures  in  Pestalozzi's  method :  they 
either  understand  well,  or  not  at  all ;  for  all  the  propositions 
follow  each  other  so  closely,  that  the  second  is  always  the  im- 
mediate consequence  of  the  first.  Rousseau  says,  that  the 
minds  of  children  are  fatigued  by  the  studies  which  are  ex- 
acted from  them.  Pestalozzi  always  lead  them  by  a  road  so 
easy  and  so  determinate,  that  it  costs  them  no  more  to  be  ini- 
tiated into  the  most  abstract  sciences  than  into  the  most  simple 
occupations — each  step  in  these  sciences  is  as  easy,  by  relation 
to  the  antecedent,  as  the  most  natural  consequence  drawn  from 
the  most  ordinary  circumstances.  What  wearies  children  is 
making  them  skip  over  the  intermediate  steps,  and  obliging 
them  to  get  forward  without  their  knowing  what  they  think 
they  have  learned.  Their  heads  are  then  in  a  state  of  con- 
fusion, which  renders  all  examination  formidable,  and  inspires 
them  with  an  invincible  disgust  for  learning.  There  exists  no 
trace  of  this  sort  of  inconvenience  in  the  method  of  Pestalozzi. 
The  children  amuse  themselves  with  their  studies,  not  that 
they  are  given  to  them  as  a  play,  which,  as  I  have  already 
said,  mixes  ennui  with  pleasure,  and  frivolity  with  study,  but 
because  they  enjoy  from  their  infancy  the  pleasure  of  grown 


INSTITUTIONS   FOR   EDUCATION.  127 

men,  which  is  that  of  comprehending  and  finishing  what  they 
are  set  about. 

The  method  of  Pestalozzi,  like  every  thing  that  is  truly  good, 
is  not  entirely  a  new  discovery,  but  an  enlightened  and  perse- 
vering application  of  truths  already  known.  Patience,  obser- 
vation, and  a  philosophical  study  of  the  proceedings  of  the 
human  mind,  have  given  him  a  knowledge  of  what  is  elemen- 
tary in  thoughts,  and  successive  in  their  development ;  and  he 
has  pushed  further  than  any  other  the  theory  and  the  practice 
of  gradation,  in  the  art  of  instruction.  His  method  has  been 
applied  with  success  to  grammar,  geography,  and  music ;  but 
it  is  much  to  be  desired  that  those  distinguished  professors, 
who  have  adopted  his  principles,  would  render  them  subser- 
vient to  every  other  species  of  knowledge.  That  of  history  in 
particular  is  not  yet  well  conceived.  No  one  has  observed  the 
gradation  of  impressions  in  literature,  as  they  have  those  of 
problems  in  the  sciences.  In  short,  many  things  remain  to  be 
done,  in  order  to  carry  education  to  its  highest  point,  that  is, 
the  art  of  going  backward  with  what  one  knows,  in  order  to 
make  others  comprehend  it. 

Pestalozzi  makes  use  of  geometry  to  teach  children  arith- 
metical calculation  ;  this  was  also  the  method  of  the  ancients. 
Geometry  speaks  more  to  the  imagination  than  the  abstract 
mathematics.  To  become  completely  master  of  the  human 
mind,  it  is  well  to  unite,  as  much  as  possible,  precision  of  in- 
struction with  vivacity  of  impression,  for  it  is  not  even  the 
depth  of  science,  but  obscurity  in  the  manner  of  presenting  it, 
which  alone  hinders  children  from  attaining  it :  they  compre- 
hend every  thing  by  degrees,  and  the  essential  point  is  to 
measure  the  steps  by  the  progress  of  reason  in  infancy ;  this 
progress,  slow  but  sure,  will  lead  as  far  as  possible,  if  we  ab- 
stain from  hastening  its  course. 

It  is  very  singular  and  pleasing  to  see  at  Pestalozzi's  the 
countenances  of  children,  whose  round,  unmeaning,  and  deli- 
cate features  naturally  assume  an  expression  of  reflection  :  they 
are  attentive  of  themselves,  and  consider  their  studies  as  a  man 
of  ripened  ag<?  would  consider  his  business.  One  remarkable 


128  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

circumstance  is,  that  punishments  and  rewards  are  never  ne- 
cessary to  excite  them  to  industry.  It  is  perhaps  the  first 
time  that  a  school  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  children  has  been 
conducted  without  the  stimulus  of  emulation  and  fear.  How 
many  evil  sentiments  are  spared  to  the  heart  of  man,  when  we 
drive  far  from  him  jealousy  and  humiliation,  when  he  sees  no 
rivals  in  his  comrades,  no  judges  in  his  masters !  Rousseau 
wished  to  subject  the  child  to  the  law  of  destiny ;  Pestalozzi 
himself  creates  that  destiny  during  the  course  of  the  child's  ed- 
ucation, and  directs  its  decrees  towards  his  happiness  and  his 
improvement.  The  child  feels  himself  free,  because  he  enjoys 
himself  amid  the  general  order  which  surrounds  him,  the  per- 
fect equality  of  which  is  not  deranged  even  by  the  talents  of 
the  children,  whether  more  or  less  distinguished.  Success  is 
not  the  object  of  pursuit,  but  merely  progress  towards  a  cer- 
tain point,  which  all  endeavor  to  reach  with  the  same  sincerity. 
The  scholars  become  masters  when  they  know  more  than  their 
comrades ;  the  masters  again  become  scholars  when  they  per- 
ceive any  imperfections  in  their  method,  and  begin  their  own 
education  again,  in  order  to  become  better  judges  of  the  diffi- 
culties attending  the  art  of  instruction. 

It  is  pretty  generally  apprehended  that  Pestalozzi's  method 
tends  to  stifle  the  imagination,  and  is  unfavorable  to  originality 
of  mind.  An  education  for  genius  would  indeed  be  a  difficult 
matter ;  there  is  scarcely  any  thing  but  nature  and  government 
which  can  either  inspire  or  excite  it ;  but  the  first  principles 
of  knowledge,  rendered  perfectly  clear  and  certain,  cannot  be 
an  obstacle  to  genius ;  they  give  the  mind  a  sort  of  firmness 
which  afterwards  renders  the  highest  studies  easy  to  it.  We 
must  view  the  school  of  Pestalozzi  as  hitherto  confined  to 
childhood.  The  education  he  gives  should  be  considered  as 
final  only  for  the  lower  classes,  but  for  that  very  reason  it  may 
diffuse  a  very  salutary  influence  over  the  national  character. 
The  education  of  the  rich  ought  to  be  divided  into  two  differ- 
ent periods :  in  the  first,  the  children  are  guided  by  their  mas- 
ters ;  in  the  second,  they  voluntarily  instruct  themselves ;  and 
this  sort  of  education,  by  choice,  is  that  which  should  be  adopt- 


INSTITUTIONS   FOR   EDUCATION.  129 

ed  in  great  universities.  The  instruction  which  is  acquired  at 
Pestalozzi's  gives  every  man,  of  what  class  soever  he  may  be, 
a  foundation  on  which  he  may  erect,  as  he  chooses,  either  the 
cottage  of  the  poor  man  or  the  palaces  of  kings. 

We  should  be  mistaken  in  France,  if  we  thought  there  was 
nothing  good  to  be  taken  from  the  school  of  Pestalozzi,  except 
his  rapid  method  of  teaching  calculation.  Pestalozzi  is  not 
himself  a  mathematician ;  he  is  not  well  acquainted  with  the 
languages ;  he  has  only  that  sort  of  genius  and  instinct,  which 
enables  him  to  develop  the  understandings  of  children  ;  he  sees 
the  direction  which  their  thought  takes  in  order  to  attain  its 
object.  That  openness  of  character  which  sheds  so  noble  a 
calm  over  the  affections  of  the  heart,  Pestalozzi  has  judged  ne- 
cessary in  the  operations  of  the  mind.  He  thinks  there  is  a 
moral  pleasure  in  completing  our  studies.  Indeed  we  contin- 
ually see  that  superficial  knowledge  inspires  a  sort  of  disdain- 
ful arrogance,  which  makes  us  reject  as  useless,  dangerous,  or 
ridiculous,  all  that  we  do  not  know.  We  also  see  that  this 
kind  of  superficial  knowledge  obliges  us  artfully  to  hide  what 
we  are  ignorant  of.  Candor  suffers  from  all  those  defects  of 
education,  which  we  are  ashamed  of  in  spite  of  ourselves.  To 
know  perfectly  what  we  do  know,  gives  a  quietness  to  the 
mind,  which  resembles  the  satisfaction  of  conscience.  The 
open  honesty  of  Pestalozzi,  that  honesty  carried  into  the  sphere 
of  the  understanding,  and  which  deals  with  ideas  as  scrupu- 
lously as  with  men,  is  the  principal  merit  of  his  school.  It  is 
by  that  means  he  assembles  round  him,  men  devoted  to  the 
welfare  of  the  children,  in  a  manner  perfectly  disinterested. 
When,  in  a  public  establishment,  none  of  the  selfish  calcula- 
tions of  the  principals  are  answered,  we  must  seek  the  spring 
which  sets  that  establishment  in  motion,  in  their  love  of  virtue  : 
the  enjoyments  which  it  affords  are  alone  sufficient,  without 
either  riches  or  power. 

We  should  not  imitate  the  institution  of  Pestalozzi,  merely 
by  carrying  his  method  of  instruction  to  other  places ;  it  would 
be  necessary  also  to  establish  with  it  the  same  perseverance  in 
the  masters,  the  same  simplicity  in  the  scholars,  the  same 

6° 


130  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GEEMANY. 

regularity  in  their  manner  of  life,  and,  above  all,  the  religious 
sentiments  which  animate  that  school.  The  forms  of  worship 
are  not  followed  there  with  more  exactness  than  elsewhere ; 
but  every  thing  is  transacted  in  the  name  of  the  Deity — in  the 
name  of  that  sentiment,  noble,  elevated,  and  pure,  which  is 
the  habitual  religion  of  the  heart.  Truth,  goodness,  confi- 
dence, affection,  surround  the  children ;  it  is  in  that  atmos- 
phere they  live ;  and,  for  a  time  at  least,  they  remain  strangers 
to  all  the  hateful  passions,  to  all  the  proud  prejudices  of  the 
world.  An  eloquent  philosopher  (Fichte)  said,  that  he  "  ex- 
pected the  regeneration  of  the  German  nation,  from  the  insti- 
tution of  Pestalozzi."  It  must  be  owned  that  a  revolution 
founded  on  such  means  would  be  neither  violent  nor  rapid  ;  for 
education,  however  excellent,  is  nothing  in  comparison  with 
the  influence  of  public  events.  Instruction  penetrates  the  rock, 
drop  by  drop,  but  the  torrent  carries  it  off  in  a  day. 

We  must,  above  all,  render  homage  to  Pestalozzi,  for  the 
care  he  has  taken  to  place  his  institution  within  the  reach  of 
persons  without  fortune,  by  reducing  his  terms  as  much  as 
possible.  He  is  constantly  occupied  with  the  poorer  classes, 
and  wishes  to  secure  for  them  the  benefit  of  pure  light  and 
solid  instruction.  In  this  respect,  the  works  of  Pestalozzi  form 
a  very  curious  kind  of  reading.  He  has  written  tales,  in  which 
the  situations  in  life  of  the  common  people  are  depicted  with 
a  degree  of  interest,  truth,  and  morality,  which  is  admirable. 
The  sentiments  which  he  expresses  in  his  writings  are,  thus  to 
speak,  as  elementary  as  the  principles  of  his  method.  We  are 
astonished  to  find  ourselves  shedding  tears  over  a  word,  a  nar- 
ration so  simple,  even  so  vulgar,  that  the  warmth  of  our  emo- 
tions alone  gives  it  consequence.  People  belonging  to  the 
lower  classes  of  society  are  of  an  intermediate  state  between 
savages  and  men  of  civilized  life ;  when  they  are  virtuous,  they 
have  a  kind  of  innocence  and  goodness  which  cannot  be  met 
with  in  the  great  world.  Society  weighs  heavily  upon  them ; 
they  struggle  with  nature,  and  their  confidence  in  God  is  more 
animated  and  more  constant  than  that  of  the  rich.  Inces- 
santly threatened  with  misfortunes,  having  constantly  recourse 


INSTITUTIONS   FOR   EDUCATION.  131 

to  prayer,  anxious  all  the  day,  and  preserved  every  night,  the 
poor  feel  themselves  under  the  immediate  hand  of  Him  who 
protects  those  who  are  abandoned  by  mankind ;  and  their  in- 
tegrity, when  they  have  any,  is  singularly  scrupulous. 

I  recollect,  in  a  tale  of  Pestalozzi's,  the  restitution  of  some 
potatoes  by  a  child  who  had  stolen  them :  his  dying  grand- 
mother orders  him  to  carry  them  back  to  the  owner  of  the 
garden  from  whence  he  took  them,  and  this  scene  affects  us  to 
the  heart.  This  poor  crime,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  causing  such 
remorse;  the  awfulness  of  death  amid  all  the  miseries  of  life; 
old  age  and  childhood  drawn  together  by  the  voice  of  God, 
which  speaks  equally  to  each  of  them ; — all  this  is  painful,  very 
painful ;  for,  in  our  poetic  fictions,  the  pomp  and  splendor  of 
destiny  relieve  us  a  little  from  the  pity  occasioned  by  its  re- 
verses ;  but  we  fancy  we  perceive,  in  these  popular  tales,  a 
feeble  lamp  enlightening  a  small  cottage,  and  goodness  of  soul 
springing  forth  in  the  midst  of  all  the  afflictions  by  which  it  is 
tried. 

As  the  art  of  drawing  is  to  be  considered  as  a  useful  art,  it 
may  be  said,  that  among  those  which  are  merely  pleasing, /the 
only  one  introduced  into  the  school  of  Pestalozzi  is  music,  and 
we  should  praise  him  also  for  the  choice  of  it.  There  is  a 
whole  order  of  sentiments,  I  might  say  a  whole  order  of  vir- 
tues, which  belong  to  the  knowledge  of,  or  at  least  to  the  taste 
for,  music ;  and  it  is  great  barbarity  to  deprive  a  numerous 
portion  of  the  human  race  of  such  impressions.  The  ancients 
pretended  that  nations  had  been  civilized  by  music,  and  this 
allegory  has  a  deep  meaning;  for  we  must  always  suppose 
that  the  bond  of  society  was  formed  either  by  sympathy  or 
interest,  and  certainly  the  first  origin  is  more  noble  than  the 
other. 

Pestalozzi  is  not  the  only  person  in  Germanic  Switzerland 
who  is  zealously  occupied  in  cultivating  the  minds  of  the  com- 
mon people  :  in  this  respect  I  was  much  struck  with  the  estab- 
lishment of  M.  de  Fellemberg.  Many  people  came  to  it  to 
acquire  new  light  on  the  subject  of  agriculture,  and  it  is  said 
that,  in  this  respect,  they  have  had  reason  to  be  satisfied ;  but 


132  MADAVE  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY. 

what  principally  deserves  the  esteem  of  the  friends  of  human 
ity,  is  the  care  which  M.  de  Fellemberg  takes  of  the  education 
of  the  lower  classes;  he  causes  village  schoolmasters  to  be 
taught  according  to  Pestalozzi's  method,  that  they  may  in 
their  turn  teach  children.  The  laborers,  who  cultivate  his 
grounds,  learn  psalm  tunes,  and  the  praises  of  God  will  soon 
be  heard  in  the  country,  sung  by  simple,  but  harmonious  voices, 
which  will  celebrate  at  once  both  nature  and  its  Author.  In 
short,  M.  de  Fellemberg  endeavors  by  every  possible  means  to 
form,  between  the  inferior  class  and  our  own,  a  liberal  tie — a 
tie  which  shall  not  be  founded  merely  on  the  pecuniary  inter- 
ests of  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

We  learn  from  the  examples  of  England  and  of  America, 
that  free  institutions  are  found  sufficient  to  develop  the  facul- 
ties and  understandings  of  the  people  ;  but  it  is  a  step  further 
to  give  them  more  than  the  instruction  which  is  necessary  to 

\  them.  There  is  something  revolting  in  the  necessary,  when  it 
is  measured  out  by  those  who  possess  the  superfluous.  It  is 
not  enough  to  be  occupied  in  promoting  the  welfare  of  the 
lower  classes  with  a  view  to  usefulness  only ;  they  must  also 
participate  in  the  enjoyments  of  the  imagination  and  the 

(__  heart. 

It  is  in  this  spirit  that  some  enlightened  philanthropists  have 
taken  up  the  subject  of  mendicity  at  Hamburg.  Neither  des- 
potism nor  speculative  economy  have  any  place  in  their  chari- 
table institutions.  It  was  their  wish  that  the  unfortunate 
objects  of  their  care  should  themselves  desire  the  labor  which 
was  expected  from  them,  as  much  as  the  benefactions  which 
were  granted  them.  As  the  welfare  of  the  poor  was  not  with 
them  a  means,  but  an  end,  they  have  not  ordered  them  em- 
ployment, but  have  made  them  desire  it.  We  constantly  see 
t  in  the  different  accounts  rendered  of  those  charitable  institu- 
tions, that  the  object  of  their  founders  was  much  more  to  ren- 
der men  better  than  to  make  them  more  useful ;'  and  it  is  this 

1  "The  charitable  institutions  of  Hamburg  are  on  a  very  munificent 
scale.    The  Orphan  Asylum  (Waisenhaus)  provides  for  six  hundred  chil- 


CHARITABLE    ESTABLISHMENTS.  133 

high,  philosophical  point  of  view,  that  characterizes  the  spirit 
of  wisdom  and  liberty  which  reigns  in  this  ancient  Hanseatic 
city. 

There  is  much  real  beneficence  in  the  world,  and  he  who  is 
not  capable  of  serving  his  fellow-creatures  by  the  sacrifice  of 
his  time  and  of  his  inclinations,  voluntarily  contributes  to  their 
welfare  with  money :  this  is  still  something,  and  no  virtue  is 
to  be  disdained.  But,  in  most  countries,  the  great  mass  of 
private  alms  is  not  wisely  directed ;  and  one  of  the  most  emi- 
nent services  which  Baron  Voght  and  his  excellent  countrymen 
have  rendered  to  the  cause  of  humanity,  is  that  of  showing, 
that  without  new  sacrifices,  without  the  intervention  of  the 
State,  private  beneficence  is  alone  sufficient  for  the  relief  of  the 
unfortunate.  That  which  is  effected  by  individuals  is  particu- 
larly suited  to  Germany,  where  every  thing  taken  separately 
is  better  than  the  whole  together. 

Charitable  institutions  ought  indeed  to  prosper  in  the  city 
of  Hamburg.  There  is  so  much  morality  among  its  inhabit- 
ants, that  for  a  time  they  paid  their  taxes  into  a  sort  of  trunk 
without  any  persons  seeing  what  they  brought;  these  taxes 
were  to  be  proportioned  to  the  fortune  of  each  individual,  and 
•when  the  calculation  was  made,  they  were  always  found  to  be 
scrupulously  paid.  Might  we  not  believe  that  we  were  relating 
a  circumstance  belonging  to  the  golden  age,  if  in  that  golden 
age  there  had  been  private  riches  and  public  taxes  ?  We  can- 
not sufficiently  admire  how  easy  all  things  relating  to  instruc- 
tion as  well  as  to  administration  are  rendered  by  honesty  and 
integrity.  We  ought  to  grant  them  all  the  honors  which  dex- 

dren,  who  are  received  as  infants,  reared,  educated,  and  bound  apprentices 
to  some  useful  trade.  The  Great  Hospital  (Krankenhaus),  in  the  suburb  of 
Saint  George,  is  capable  of  containing  from  four  thousand  to  five  thousand 
sick.  The  yearly  cost  of  supporting  this  admirable  institution  is  nearly 
£17,000.  Its  utility  is  not  confined  to  the  poor  alone,  as  even  persons  of 
the  higher  classes  resort  to  the  hospital  to  avail  themselves  of  the  advan- 
tages of  the  excellent  medical  treatment  which  they  may  here  obtain.  Such 
patients  are  admitted  as  lodgers,  on  payment  of  a  sum  varying  from  eight 
pence  to  eight  shillings  a  day."— (Murray's  Hand-book  of  Northern  G«r~ 
many,  p.  322.)— Ed. 


134  MADAME   DE    STAEL's   GERMANY. 

terity  usually  obtains ;  for  in  the  end  they  succeed  better  even 
in  the  affairs  of  this  world.' 

1  We  here  add,  from  a  competent  hand,  a  summary  of  the  present  in- 
tellectual condition  of  Germany. 

"  In  respect  of  mental  cultivation,  the  German  nation  stands  in  a  high 
rank ;  and  according  to  Professor  Berghaus  it  may  be  said  without  vanity, 
that  Germany  stands  on  the  highest  step  of  the  ladder  of  civilization.  In 
no  country  of  Europe,  he  continues,  are  education  and  true  enlightenment 
so  generally  spread  over  all  classes  of  society,  from  the  richest  to  the  poor- 
est, as  in  his  fatherland.  This  result  has  been  brought  about  only  in  recent 
times,  and  it  is  ascribed  to  the  unceasing  exertions  of  the  State  govern- 
ments to  free  their  people  from  the  darkness  of  ignorance  and  superstition. 
There  is  not  a  village  in  Germany  that  has  not  its  school  to  spread  intelli- 
gence among  its  people. 

"  For  the  purposes  of  education  there  are,  especially  in  Protestant  Ger- 
many, numerous  schools  or  institutions  for  elementary  instruction  in  all 
the  towns,  for  both  the  higher  and  the  working  classes.  For  the  higher 
civic  professions  and  employments,  there  are  real  professional  and  commer- 
cial schools,  seminaries  for  the  training  of  schoolmasters,  gymnasiums  and 
lyceums  for  the  higher  branches  of  education,  and  for  the  highest  of  all, 
there  are  twenty-three  universities,  to  which  may  be  added  the  German 
University  of  Konigsberg,  in  East  Prussia,  making  in  all  twenty-four. 
The  institutions  preparatory  for  the  universities  are  the  gymnasia,  in 
which  the  educational  course  consists  chiefly  of  classical  studies,  that  is  to 
Bay,  Greek  and  Latin,  with  French,  mathematics,  and  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  the  natural  sciences.  The  basis  of  their  constitution  lies  in  remote 
times,  and  there  have  been  but  few  and  slight  alterations  in  their  plans  of 
study  since  the  beginning  of  the  present  century.  Owing,  however,  to  the 
Bmallness  of  the  emoluments,  and  the  consequent  low  estimation  in  which 
the  office  of  teacher  is  held,  there  is  not  a  sufficient  number  of  qualified 
competitors  to  supply  the  vacancies  that  occur.  The  government  has  been 
obliged  in  consequence  to  raise  their  emoluments,  and  thereby  obviate  this 
increasing  evil. 

"  A  more  recent  class  of  institutions  are  the  real-schulen  (or  high  town- 
schools),  in  which  Latin  is  the  only  ancient  language  taught,  the  other 
branches  being  modern  languages,  especially  French  and  English,  math- 
ematics, and  natural  philosophy.  These  schools  have  for  a  long  time 
enjoyed  much  approval  as  preparatory  institutions  for  many  departments 
of  civil  life.  Industrial  schools  are  of  still  more  recent  origin.  They 
have  been  established  by  government  in  the  larger  towns  of  every  prov- 
ince ;  the  one  half  of  the  expense  of  maintaining  them  being  defrayed  by 
the  government,  and  the  other  half  by  the  municipality.  Their  purpose 
is  purely  industrial ;  drawing,  mechanics,  mathematics,  physics,  and  chem- 
istry, are  the  subjects  taught ;  languages  are  excluded. 

"  The  following  table  contains  the  names  of  the  twenty-four  universi- 
ties ;  the  dates  of  their  respective  foundations ;  the  number  of  professors 
and  other  teachers;  the  number  of  students  that  attended  them  dur- 


THE   FETE   OF   INTERLACHEN. 


135 


THE  FETE  OF  INTERLACHEN. 

WE  must  attribute  to  the  German  character  a  great  part  of 
the  virtues  of  Germanic  Switzerland.  There  is,  nevertheless, 
more  public  spirit  in  Switzerland  than  in  Germany,  more  pa- 
triotism, more  energy,  more  harmony  in  opinions  and  senti- 


ing  the  winter  session  of  1853-4,  and  the  numbers  that  attended  each 
branch : — 


NAMES. 

DATES  OF 
FOUNDATION. 

NUMBER  OF 
PROFESSORS 

AND 

TEACHERS. 

NUMBER  OF 
STUDENTS. 

Berlin  

1810 

173 

2,204 

J)  <  >  M  H  

1818 

87 

888 

Breslau  

(  1702  ) 

96 

789 

Erlangen  

(  1810  ) 
1743 

48 

479 

Freiburg  

1457 

41 

376 

Giessen  

1607 

58 

880 

Gottingen    

1737 

111 

699 

Grsitz  

(  1586  I 

29 

429 

Greifswald  

\  1826  j 
1456 

54 

222 

Halle  

1694 

71 

650 

Heidelberg  

1386 

87 

718 

Jena  

1557 

69 

380 

Innspriick  

(  1673  ) 

22 

278 

Kiel  

1  1826  ) 
1655 

42 

142 

Konigsberg  

1553 

64 

326 

Leipzig  .  .. 

1409 

113 

807 

1527 

61 

268 

Munich  

1826 

98 

1,810 

Olmutz  

(  1581  } 

13 

203 

Prague  

J  1827  f 
1348 

88 

1  415 

Rostock  

1419 

31 

111 

Tubingen  

1477 

81 

742 

Vienna  

1865 

113 

2,614 

Wurzburg  

1403 

47 

706 

Totals  

1,697 

17,636 

"  The  teachers  consisted  of  the  following  classes,  viz. — 1.  Ordinary  pro- 
fessors; 2.  Extraordinary  professors;  3.  Honorary  professors;  4.  Private 


136  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GEKMANY. 

ments ;  but  the  smallness  of  the  States,  and  the  poverty  of  the 
country,  do  not  in  any  degree  excite  genius;  we  find  there 
much  fewer  learned  or  thinking  men  than  in  the  north  of 
Germany,  where  even  the  relaxation  of  political  ties  gives  free- 


teachers  or  tutors ;  5.  Language  and  exercise  masters.    The  students  con- 
sisted of — 

1.  Students  of  Protestant  theology 1692 


Eoman  Catholic  theology 1606 

Law,  statecraft,  and  forestry 6394 

Medicine,  surgery,  and  pharmacy      ....  3644 

Philosophy  and  philology 2592 

not  matriculated 1708 


"  In  the  matter  of  education,  Prussia  is  the  ruler  and  guide,  and  what- 
ever is  established  or  pursued  in  that  kingdom  comes  sooner  or  later  into 
operation  in  other  States.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  present  century, 
education  has  occupied  the  attention  and  received  a  new  impulse  at  the 
hands  of  the  other  governments ;  but  it  is  only  since  1848  that  the  school 
organization  of  Prussia  has  been  transplanted  into  the  Austrian  territory, 
where,  however,  it  still  continues  to  experience  the  opposition  of  the 
nobles  and  clergy.  The  ignorance  which  formerly  prevailed  among  the 
lower  classes  has  almost  entirely  vanished  in  Northern  Germany  at  least, 
and  there  is  no  class  in  which  scholarly  culture  and  scientific  attainments 
may  not  be  expected.  The  constant  care,  however,  and  determination  of 
the  government  to  make  all  partakers  of  a  certain  amount  of  education,  has 
made  it  seem  necessary  to  constrain  all  parents  by  fines  or  other  punish- 
ments to  send  their  children  to  school.  Peculiar  attention  is  at  present 
being  paid  to  educational  institutions,  and  the  governments  are  seeking  to 
reform  them  so  as  to  prevent  the  recurrence  or  continuance  of  those  evils 
that  are  believed  to  have  flowed  from  them,  and  to  have  occasioned,  in  a 
great  degree,  if  not  entirely,  the  popular  outburst  in  1848. 

"  Mental  cultivation  and  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge  are  largely 
promoted  by  means  of  numerous  public  libraries,  established  in  the  capi- 
tals, the  university  towns,  and  other  places.  The  most  celebrated  public 
libraries  are  those  of  Vienna,  Berlin,  Gottingen,  Munich,  Dresden,  Ham- 
burg, Wolfenbuttel,  Stuttgart,  Frankfort-on-the-Maine,  and  Weimar. 
Besides  the  public  ones,  there  are  throughout  Germany  many  private 
libraries  of  extraordinary  richness  in  literary  treasures  of  all  kinds.  There 
are  also  numerous  societies  and  unions,  among  which  the  most  distinguish- 
ed are  the  Academies  of  Sciences  at  Berlin  and  Munich,  and  the  Society  of 
Sciences  at  Gottingen,  which  are  state  institutions.  With  scientific  collec- 
tions of  all  kinds,  every  place  is  richly  provided,  either  at  the  public  ex- 
pense or  by  the  favor  of  private  persons.  The  observatories  of  Altona, 
Berlin,  Breslau,  Gottingen,  Mannheim,  Munich,  Prague,  Seeberg  near 
Gotha,  Vienna,  and  Konigsberg  in  Prussia,  are  distinguished  for  the  pro- 
motion of  astronomy  and  other  branches  of  physical  science.  The  taste 


THE    FETE    OF    INTERLACES^.  137 

dom  to  all  those  noble  reveries,  those  bold  systems,  which  are 
not  subjected  to  the  nature  of  things.  The  Swiss  are  not  a 
poetical  nation,  and  we  are  with  reason  astonished  that  the 
beauties  of  their  country  should  not  have  further  inflamed  their 


for  astronomy  is  very  great  in  Germany,  as  is  evidenced  by  the  existence 
of  many  private  observatories,  among  which  those  of  Olbers  at  Bremen, 
and  of  Beer  near  Berlin,  are  the  most  celebrated.  In  this  department, 
Germany  can  boast  of  the  names  of  Copernicus,  Kepler,  Herschel,  Olbers, 
Bessel,  and  many  others. 

"  The  fine  arts  likewise  are  carefully  fostered.  There  are  academies  at 
Berlin,  Dusseldorf,  Munich,  and  Vienna,  whose  object  it  is  to  spread  u 
taste  for  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  and  music,  and  to  improve  the 
technics  of  art.  The  taste  for  art  has  struck  deep  root  among  all  the  edu- 
cated Germans,  particularly  in  the  north,  and  is  directed  and  represented 
by  three  schools,  those  of  Berlin,  Dusseldorf,  and  Munich,  which  have 
produced  some  of  the  finest  proofs  of  German  genius.  Besides  the  acade- 
mies, there  are  numerous  art-museums  and  collections  of  pictures  and  anti- 
quities, particularly  in  Berlin,  Cassel,  Dresden,  Munich,  and  Vienna.  In 
sculpture,  German  genius  has  of  late  years  greatly  excelled,  as  in  the  works 
of  Daunecker,  Schwanthaler,  and  Kiss ;  and  architecture  has  received  the 
greatest  encouragement  in  the  erection  of  both  public  and  private  buildings 
of  great  magnificence,  of  which  the  late  King  of  Bavaria  showed  the  most 
munificent  example  in  the  embellishment  of  his  capital  Munich,  and  the 
erection  of  the  German  Valhalla,  near  Eatisbon,  though  the  attempt  to 
adapt  the  Grecian  temple  style,  without  regard  to  climate  and  other  cir- 
cumstances, to  modern  buildings,  intended  for  very  different  purposes,  has 
failed  as  completely  there  as  it  has  everywhere  else. 

"  The  activity  of  the  German  mind  on  the  wide  fields  of  art  and  science 
has,  through  the  effect  of  general  intercourse  and  exchange  of  ideas,  pro- 
duced a  liveliness  of  which  the  Germans  believe  there  is  no  parallel  to  be 
found  in  any  other  country  of  Europe.  The  German  book-trade,  in  respect 
of  the  position  it  has  gradually  acquired  since  the  Reformation,  must  be 
considered  as  a  prime  mover  in  the  mental  culture  of  Germany ;  while,  in 
a  material  point  of  view,  it  has  acquired  an  extent  and  importance  elsewhere 
unknown.  Thousands  of  people  find  in  it  employment  and  maintenance, 
as  printers,  type-founders,  machine -makers,  paper-makers,  and  book- 
binders ;  and  the  productions  of  the  press  are  spread  all  over  Germany 
with  the  most  marvellous  rapidity.  Leipzig  is  the  central  point  of  thia 
important  branch  of  industry.  The  general  taste  for  the  beautiful  has  had 
its  effect  on  the  art  of  printing,  in  requiring  the  use  of  fine,  close,  white 
paper,  clear  type,  and  elegant  binding,  instead  of  the  gray-brown  blotting- 
paper,  and  worn-out  and  broken  type,  that  were  formerly  used.  The 
periodical  press  is  very  active ;  but  political  discussion  is  not  free.  On 
political  subjects,  freedom  of  speech  does  not  suit  the  German  govern- 
ments, and  offences  of  this  kind  are  very  severely  punished,  as  happened 
in  1854  with  Gervinus  in  Baden.  On  religion,  however,  and  philosophy. 


138  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

imagination.  A  religious  and  free  people  are  at  all  times  sus- 
ceptible of  enthusiasm,  and  the  daily  occupations  of  life  cannot 
entirely  subdue  it.  If  this  could  have  been  doubted,  we  might 
still  be  convinced  of  it  by  the  pastoral  fete,  which  was  last  year 
celebrated  in  the  midst  of  lakes,  in  memory  of  the  founder  of 
Berne. 

This  city  merits  more  than  ever  the  respect  and  interest  of 
traveller  :  it  appears  since  its  last  misfortunes  to  have  resumed 
all  its  virtues  with  new  ardor ;  and,  while  losing  its  treasures, 
has  redoubled  its  beneficence  towards  the  unfortunate.  The 
charitable  establishments  in  this  place  are  perhaps  the  best 
attended  to  of  any  in  Europe :  the  hospital  is  the  finest,  and 
indeed  the  only  magnificent  edifice  in  the  city.  On  the  gate 
is  written  this  inscription  :  CHRISTO  IN  PAUPERIBUS.  Nothing 
can  be  more  admirable.  Has  not  the  Christian  religion  told 
us,  that  it  was  for  those  who  suffered  that  Christ  descended  on 
the  earth  ?  And  who  among  us  is  not  in  some  period  of  his  life, 
either  in  respect  to  his  happiness  or  his  hopes,  one  of  those 
unfortunate  beings  who  needs  relief  in  the  name  of  God  ? 

Every  thing  throughout  the  city  and  canton  of  Berne  bears 
marks  of  calm,  serious  regularity,  of  a  kind  and  paternal  gov- 
ernment. An  air  of  probity  is  felt  in  every  object  which  we 
perceive;  we  may  believe  ourselves  in  our  own  family  while  in 
the  midst  of  two  hundred  thousand  men,  who,  whether  nobles, 
citizens,  or  peasants,  are  all  equally  devoted  to  their  country. 

the  utmost  freedom  of  publication  is  allowed ;  and  the  effect  has  been 
almost  to  root  out  ancestral  faith  and  dogmatic  theology  from  the  minds 
of  most  educated  people,  though  of  late  years  an  evangelical  reaction 
seems  to  have  made,  or  to  be  making,  considerable  progress.  The  pub- 
lication of  Kalenders,  which  have  been  of  late  years  vastly  improved,  is  of 
much  importance  in  the  instruction  of  the  people.  Almost  every  town  in 
Germany  has  its  own  daily  newspaper,  and  of  these,  five  have  acquired  a 
European  reputation,  if  not  for  the  excellence,  at  least  for  the  importance 
of  their  contents.  These  are  the  Austrian  Observer  and  the  Prussian  State 
Gazette,  the  organs  of  their  respective  governments ;  the  Hamburg  Corre- 
spondent, and  the  Augsburg  and  Leipzig  General  Gazettes.  Of  the  number 
of  weekly  newspapers  and  popular  instructive  publications,  their  name, 
says  Dr.  Berghaus,  is  legion.  The  higher  tranches  of  learning  and  of  art 
are  equally  well  attended  to  by  their  respective  journalists." — (Encyclope- 
dia, Eritanica,  article  Germany.) — Ed. 


THE   FETE   OF   INTEKLACHEX.  139 

In  going  to  the  f£te  it  was  necessary  to  embark  on  one  of 
those  lakes  which,  reflecting  all  the  beauties  of  nature,  seemed 
placed  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps  only  to  multiply  their  enchant- 
ing forms.  A  stormy  sky  deprived  us  of  a  distinct  view  of  the 
mountains ;  but,  half  enveloped  in  clouds,  they  appeared  the 
more  awfully  sublime.  The  storm  increased ;  and,  though  a 
feeling  of  terror  seized  my  soul,  I  even  loved  the  thunderbolt 
of  heaven  which  confounds  the  pride  of  man.  We  reposed 
ourselves  for  a  moment  in  a  kind  of  grotto,  before  we  ventured 
to  cross  that  part  of  the  lake  of  Thun  which  is  surrounded  by 
inaccessible  rocks.  It  was  in  such  a  place  that  William  Tell 
braved  the  abyss,  and  clung  to  the  rocks  in  escaping  from  his 
tyrants.  We  now  perceived  in  the  distance  that  mountain 
which  bears  the  name  of  the  Virgin  (Jungfrau),  because  no 
traveller  has  ever  been  able  to  attain  its  summit ;  it  is  not  so 
high  as  Mount  Blanc,  and  yet  it  inspires  more  veneration,  be- 
cause we  know  that  it  is  inaccessible. 

We  arrived  at  Interlachen ;  and  the  sound  of  the  Aar,  which 
falls  in  cascades  near  this  little  town,  disposed  the  soul  to  pen- 
sive reflection.  A  great  number  of  strangers  were  lodged  in 
the  rustic  but  neat  abodes  of  the  peasants;  it  was  striking 
enough  to  see,  walking  in  the  streets  of  Interlachen,  young  Pa- 
risians at  once  transported  into  the  valleys  of  Switzerland. 
Here  they  heard  only  the  torrents,  they  saw  only  the  moun- 
tains, and  endeavored  in  these  solitary  regions  to  find  means 
of  tiring  themselves  sufficiently  to  return  with  renewed  pleas- 
ure to  the  world. 

Much  has  been  said  of  an  air  played  on  the  Alpine  horn, 
which  made  so  lively  an  impression  on  the  Swiss,  that  when 
they  heard  it  they  quitted  their  regiments  to  return  to  their 
country.  We  may  imagine  what  effect  this  air  must  produce 
when  repeated  by  the  echoes  of  the  mountains ;  but  it  should 
be  heard  resounding  from  a  distance ;  when  near,  the  sensation 
which  it  produces  is  not  agreeable.  If  sung  by  Italian  voices, 
the  imagination  would  be  perfectly  intoxicated  with  it ;  but 
perhaps  this  pleasure  would  give  birth  to  ideas  foreign  to  the 
simplicity  of  the  country.  We  should  wish  for  the  arts,  for 


140  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

poetry,  for  love,  where  we  ought  to  content  ourselves  with  the 
tranquillity  of  a  country  life. 

On  the  evening  preceding  the  fete,  fires  were  lighted  on  the 
mountains ;  thus  it  was  that  the  deliverers  of  Switzerland  for- 
merly gave  the  signal  of  their  holy  conspiracy.  These  fires, 
.placed  on  the  heights,  resembled  the  moon,  when,  rising  be- 
hind the  mountains,  she  displays  herself  at  once  brilliant  and 
peaceful.  It  might  almost  have  been  thought  that  new  stars 
appeared  to  lend  their  aid  to  the  most  affecting  sight  which 
this  world  could  offer.  One  of  these  flaming  signals  seemed 
placed  in  the  heavens,  from  whence  it  illumined  the  ruins  of 
the  castle  of  Unspunnen,  formerly  possessed  by  Berthold 
[Berchtold],  the  founder  of  Berne,  in  remembrance  of  whom 
this  festival  was .  given.  Profound  darkness  encircled  this 
bright  object ;  and  the  mountains,  which  during  the  night  re- 
sembled vast  phantoms,  seemed  like  the  gigantic  shades  of  the 
dead,  whose  memory  we  were  then  celebrating. 

On  the  day  of  the  fete,  the  weather  was  mild,  but  cloudy ; 
it  seemed  as  if  all  nature  responded  to  the  tender  emotions  of 
every  heart.  The  inclosure  chosen  for  the  games  is  sur- 
rounded by  wooded  hills,  behind  which  mountains  rise  above 
each  other  as  far  as  the  sight  can  reach.  All  the  spectators, 
to  the  number  of  nearly  six  thousand,  seated  themselves  in 
rows  on  the  declivity,  and  the  varied  colors  of  their  dress 
looked  at  a  distance  like  flowers  scattered  over  the  mead- 
ows. No  festival  could  ever  have  worn  a  more  smiling  ap- 
pearance ;  but  when  we  raised  our  eyes,  the  rocks  suspended 
above  us  seemed,  like  destiny,  to  threaten  weak  mortals  in 
the  midst  of  their  pleasures.  If  there  is,  however,  a  joy  of 
the  soul  so  pure  as  to  disarm  even  fate,  it  was  then  experi- 
enced. 

When  the  crowd  of  spectators  was  assembled,  the  proces- 
sion of  the  festival  was  heard  approaching  from  a  distance — a 
procession  which  was  in  fact  a  solemn  one,  for  it  was  devoted 
to  the  celebration  of  the  past.  It  was  accompanied  with 
pleasing  music ;  the  magistrates  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
peasants;  the  young  girls  were  clothed  in  the  ancient  and 


THE   FETE   OF   INTERLACHE2*.  141 

picturesque  costumes  of  their  cantons ;  the  halberts  and  the 
banners  of  each  valley  were  carried  in  front  by  old  men  with 
white  hair,  and  dressed  in  habits  exactly  similar  to  those  worn 
five  centuries  ago,  at  the  time  of  the  conspiracy  of  the  Rutli. 
The  soul  was  filled  with  emotion  on  seeing  these  banners,  now 
so  peaceful,  with  the  aged  for  their  guardians.  Days  long 
past  were  represented  by  these  men,  old  in  comparison  with 
ourselves,  but  when  considered  in  reference  to  the  lapse  of 
ages,  how  young  !  There  was  an  air  of  trust  and  reliance  in 
all  these  feeble  beings  which  was  touching  in  the  extreme,  be- 
cause it  could  only  be  inspired  by  the  honesty  of  their  souls. 
In  the  midst  of  our  rejoicing,  our  eyes  filled  with  tears,  just 
as  they  are  wont  to  do  on  those  happy  and  yet  melancholy 
days  when  we  celebrate  the  convalescence  of  those  whom 
we  love. 

At  last  the  games  began ;  and  the  men  of  the  valley,  and 
those  of  the  mountains,  displayed,  in  lifting  enormous  weights 
or  in  wrestling  with  one  another,  a  degree  of  agility  and 
strength  of  body  which  was  very  remarkable.  This  strength 
formerly  rendered  nations  more  military ;  now,  in  our  days, 
when  tactics  and  artillery  determine  the  fate  of  armies,  it  is  only 
to  be  seen  in  the  games  of  husbandmen.  The  earth  is  better 
cultivated  by  men  who  are  thus  robust,  but  war  cannot  be 
made  without  the  aid  of  discipline  and  of  numbers ;  and  even 
the  emotions  of  the  soul  have  less  empire  over  human  destiny, 
now  that  individuals  have  been  sunk  in  communities,  and  that 
the  human  species  seems,  like  inanimate  nature,  to  be  directed 
by  mechanical  laws. 

After  the  games  were  ended,  and  the  good  bailiff  of  the 
place  had  distributed  the  prizes  to  the  victors,  we  dined  under 
tents,  and  sung  songs  in  honor  of  the  tranquil  happiness  of  the 
Swiss.  During  the  repast,  wooden  cups  were  handed  round, 
on  which  were  carved  William  Tell,  and  the  three  founders  of 
Helvetic  liberty.  With  transport  they  drank  to  peace,  to  or- 
der, to  independence  ;  and  the  patriotism  of  happiness  was  ex- 
pressed with  a  cordiality  which  penetrated  every  soul. 

"  The  meadows  are  as  flowery  as  ever,  the  mountains  as  ver- 


142  MADAME   DE   BTAEL?S    GERMANY. 

dant :  when  all  nature  smiles,  can  the  heart  of  man  alone  be  a 
mere  desert  ?" l 

No,  most  undoubtedly,  it  was  not  so  ;  the  soul  expanded 
•with  confidence  in  the  midst  of  this  fine  country,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  these  respectable  men — all  animated  with  the  purest 
sentiments.  A  country,  poor  in  itself,  and  narrow  in  extent, 
without  luxury,  without  power,  without  lustre,  is  cherished  by 
its  inhabitants  as  a  friend  who  conceals  his  virtues  in  the  shade, 
and  devotes  them  all  to  the  happiness  of  those  who  love  him. 
During  the  five  centuries  of  prosperity  which  the  Swiss  have 
enjoyed,  we  may  reckon  wise  generations  rather  than  great 
men.  There  is  no  room  for  exceptions  where  all  are  thus  hap- 
py. The  ancestors  of  this  nation  may  still  be  said  to  reign 
there,  ever  respected,  imitated,  revived  in  their  descendants. 
Their  simplicity  of  manners,  and  attachment  to  ancient  cus- 
toms, the  wisdom  and  uniformity  of  their  lives,  recall  the  past 
and  anticipate  the  future ;  a  history  which  is  always  the  same 
seems  like  a  single  moment,  lasting  through  ages.2 


1  These  words  were  the  refrain  of  a  song,  full  of  grace  and  talent,  com- 
posed for  this  f6te.  The  author  is  Madame  Harmds,  well  known  in  Ger- 
many by  her  writings  under  the  name  of  Madame  de  Berlepsch. 

*  We  cannot  help  adding  here  the  following  description  of  Swiss  scenery, 
— perhaps  the  finest  of  the  kind  ever  drawn  by  the  hand  of  a  great  artist, — 
from  Goethe's  Wilhdm  Meister's  Wanderjare:  "He  succeeds  in  represent- 
ing the  cheerful  repose  of  lake  prospects,  where  houses  in  friendly  approx- 
imation, imaging  themselves  in  the  clear  wave,  seem  as  if  bathing  in  its 
depths ;  shores  encircled  with  green  hills,  behind  which  rise  forest  moun- 
tains, and  icy  peaks  of  glaciers.  The  tone  of  coloring  in  such  scenes  IB 
gay,  mirthfully  clear ;  the  distances  as  if  overflowed  with  softening  vapor,, 
which  from  watered  hollows  and  river  valleys  mounts  up  grayer  and  mist- 
ier, and  indicates  their  windings.  No  less  is  the  master's  art  to  be  praised 
in  views  from  valleys  lying  nearer  the  high  Alpine  ranges,  where  declivi- 
ties slope  down,  luxuriantly  overgrown,  and  fresh  streams  roll  hastily 
along  by  the  foot  of  rocks. 

"With  exquisite  skill,  in  the  deep  shady  trees  of  the  foreground,  he 
gives  the  distinctive  character  of  the  several  species,  satisfying  us  in  the 
form  of  the  whole,  as  in  the  structure  of  the  branches,  and  the  details  of  the 
leaves ;  no  less  so  in  the  fresh  green  with  its  manifold  shadings,  where 
soft  airs  appear  as  if  fanning  us  with  benignant  breath,  and  the  lights  as  if 
thereby  put  in  motion. 

"  In  the  middle-ground,  his  lively  green  tone  grows  fainter  by  degrees; 


THE   FETE    OF    INTERLACHEN.  143 

Life  flows  on,  in  these  valleys,  like  the  rivers  which  run 
through  them  ;  new  waves  indeed  appear,  but  they  follow  the 
same  course  :  may  they  never  be  interrupted  !  May  the  same 
festival  be  often  celebrated  at  the  foot  of  the  same  mountains ! 
May  the  stranger  admire  them  as  wonders,  while  the  Helve- 
tian cherishes  them  as  an  asylum,  where  magistrates  and  fa- 
thers watch  together  over  citizens  and  children ! 

and  at  last,  on  the  more  distant  mountain-tops,  passing  into  weak  violet, 
weds  itself  with  the  blue  of  the  sky.  But  our  artist  is  above  all  happy  in 
his  paintings  of  high  Alpine  regions ;  in  seizing  the  simple  greatness  and 
stillness  of  their  character ;  the  wide  pastures  on  the  slopes,  where  dark, 
solitary  firs  stand  forth  from  the  grassy  carpet ;  and  from  high  cliffs, 
foaming  brooks  rush  down.  Whether  he  relieves  his  pasturages  with 
grazing  cattle,  or  the  narrow  winding  rocky  path  with  mules  and  laden 
pack-horses,  he  paints  all  with  equal  truth  and  richness ;  still,  introduced 
in  the  proper  place,  and  not  in  too  great  copiousness,  they  decorate  and 
enliven  these  scenes,  without  .interrupting,  without  lessening  their  peace- 
ful solitude.  The  execution  testifies  a  master's  hand ;  easy,  with  a  few 
sure  strokes,  and  yet  complete.  In  his  later  pieces,  he  employed  glitter- 
ing English  permanent  colors,  on  paper :  these  pictures,  accordingly,  are 
of  pre-eminently  blooming  tone ;  cheerful,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  strong 
and  sated. 

"  His  views  of  deep  mountain  chasms,  where,  round  and  round,  nothing 
fronts  us  but  dead  rock,  where,  in  the  abyss,  over-spanned  by  its  bold  arch, 
the  wild  stream  rages,  are,  indeed,  of  less  attraction  than  the  former :  yet 
their  truth  excites  us  ;  we  admire  the  great  effect  of  the  whole,  produced 
at  so  little  cost,  by  a  few  expressive  strokes  and  masses  of  local  colors. 

"  With  no  less  accuracy  of  character  can  he  represent  the  regions  of  the 
topmost  Alpine  ranges,  where  neither  tree  nor  shrub  any  more  appears ; 
but  only  amid  the  rocky  teeth  and  snow  summits,  a  few  sunny  spots  clothe 
themselves  with  a  soft  sward.  Beautiful,  and  balmy,  and  inviting  as  he 
colors  these  spots,  he  has  here  wisely  forborne  to  introduce  grazing  herds ; 
for  these  regions  give  food  only  to  the  chamois,  and  a  perilous  employment 
to  the  wild-hay-men." »— Ed. 

J  "The  poor  wild-hay-man  of  the  Rigiberg, 
Whose  trade  is,  on  the  brow  of  the  abyss, 
To  mow  the  common  grass  from  nooks  and  shelves, 
To  which  the  cattle  dare  not  climb." 

Tttt, 


PART  II, 


ON  LITERATURE  AND  THE  ARTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHY   ARK    THE    FRENCH   UNJUST   TO    GERMAN    LITERATURE  ? 

I  MIGHT  answer  this  question  in  a  very  simple  manner,  by 
saying  that  very  few  people  in  France  are  acquainted  with  the 
German  language,  and  that  its  beauties,  above  all  in  poetry, 
cannot  be  translated  into  French.  The  Teutonic  languages 
are  easily  translated  into  each  other ;  it  is  the  same  with  the 
Latin  languages ;  but  these  cannot  give  a  just  idea  of  German 
poetry.  Music  composed  for  one  instrument  is  not  executed 
with  success  on  another  of  a  different  sort.  Besides,  German 
literature  has  scarcely  existed  in  all  its  originality  more  than 
forty  or  fifty  years ;  and  the  French,  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
have  been  so  absorbed  in  political  events,  that  all  their  literary 
studies  have  been  suspended. 

It  would,  however,  be  treating  the  question  very  super- 
ficially, merely  to  say  that  the  French  are  unjust  to  German 
literature  because  they  are  ignorant  of  it :  they  have,  it  is  true, 
strong  prejudices  against  it ;  but  these  prejudices  arise  from  a 
confused  sentiment  of  the  wide  difference,  both  in  the  manner 
of  seeing  and  feeling,  which  exists  between  the  two  nations. 

In  Germany  there  is  no  standard  of  taste  on  any  one  sub- 
ject ;  all  is  independent,  all  is  individual.  They  judge  of  a 
work  by  the  impression  it  makes,  and  never  by  any  rule,  be- 
cause no  rule  is  generally  admitted  ;  every  author  is  at  liberty 

VOL.  I.— 7 


14:6  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

to  form  a  new  sphere  for  himself.  In  France,  the  greater 
number  of  readers  will  neither  be  affected,  nor  even  amused, 
at  the  expense  of  their  literary  conscience  :  their  scruple 
therein  finds  a  refuge.  A  German  author  forms  his  own  pub- 
lic ;  in  France  the  public  commands  authors.  As  in  France 
there  are  more  people  of  cultivated  minds  than  there  are  in 
Germany,  the  public  exacts  much  more  ;  while  the  German 
writers,  eminently  raised  above  their  judges,  govern  instead  of 
receiving  the  law  from  them.  From  thence  it  happens  that 
their  writers  are  scarcely  ever  improved  by  criticism  :  the  im- 
patience of  the  readers,  or  that  of  the  spectators,  never  obliges 
them  to  shorten  their  works,  and  they  scarcely  ever  stop  in 
proper  time,  because  an  author,  being  seldom  weary  of  his  own 
conceptions,  can  be  informed  only  by  others  when  they  cease 
to  be  interesting.  From  self-love,  the  French  think  and  live 
in  the  opinions  of  others  ;  and  we  perceive  in  the  greater  part 
of  their  works  that  their  principal  end  is  not  the  subject  they 
treat,  but  the  effect  they  produce.  The  French  writers  are 
always  in  the  midst  of  society,  even  when  they  are  composing  ; 
for  they  never  lose  sight  of  the  opinion,  raillery,  and  taste  then 
in  fashion,  or,  in  other  words,  the  literary  authority  under 
which  we  live  at  such  or  such  a  time. 

The  first  requisite  in  writing  is  a  strong  and  lively  manner 
of  feeling.  Persons  who  study  in  others  what  they  ought  to 
experience  themselves,  and  what  they  are  permitted  to  say, 
with  respect  to  literature  have  really  no  existence.  Doubtless, 
our  writers  of  genius  (and  what  nation  possesses  more  of  these 
than  France  ?)  have  subjected  themselves  only  to  those  ties 
which  were  not  prejudicial  to  their  originality  ;  but  we  must 
compare  the  two  countries  en  masse,  and  at  the  present  time, 
to  know  from  whence  arises  their  difficulty  of  understanding 
each  other. 

In  France  they  scarcely  ever  read  a  work  but  to  furnish 
matter  for  conversation ;  in  Germany,  where  people  live  almost 
alone,  the  work  itself  must  supply  the  place  of  company  ;  and 
what  mental  society  can  we  form  with  a  book,  which  should 
itself  be  only  the  echo  of  society  1  In  the  silence  of  retreat. 


GERMAN    LITERATURK.  147 

nothing  seems  more  melancholy  than  the  spirit  of  the  world. 
The  solitary  man  needs  an  internal  emotion  which  shall  com- 
pensate for  the  want  of  exterior  excitement. 

Perspicuity  is  in  France  one  of  the  first  merits  of  a  writer; 
for  the  first  object  of  a  reader  is  to  give  himself  no  trouble,  but 
to  catch,  by  running  over  a  few  pages  in  the  morning,  what 
will  enable  him  to  shine  in  conversation  in  the  evening.  The 
Germans,  on  the  contrary,  know  that  perspicuity  can  never 
have  more  than  a  relative  merit :  a  book  is  clear  according  to 
the  subject  and  according  to  the  reader.  Montesquieu  cannot 
be  so  easily  understood  as  Voltaire,  and  nevertheless  he  is  as 
clear  as  the  object  of  his  meditations  will  permit.  Without 
doubt,  clearness  should  accompany  depth  of  thought;  but 
those  who  confine  themselves  only  to  the  graces  of  wit  and 
the  play  on  words,  are  much  more  sure  of  being  understood. 
They  have  nothing  to  do  with  mystery, — why  then  should 
they  be  obscure  ?  The  Germans,  through  an  opposite  defect, 
take  pleasure  in  darkness ;  they  often  wrap  in  obscurity  what 
was  before  clear,  rather  than  follow  the  beaten  road ;  they 
have  such  a  disgust  for  common  ideas,  that  when  they  find 
themselves  obliged  to  recur  to  them,  they  surround  them  with 
abstract  metaphysics,  which  give  them  an  air  of  novelty  till 
they  are  found  out.  German  writers  are  under  no  restraint 
with  their  readers;  their  works  being  received  and  commented 
upon  as  oracles,  they  may  envelop  them  with  as  many  clouds 
a*  they  like  :  patience  is  never  wanting  to  draw  these  clouds 
aside  ;  but  it  is  necessary,  at  length,  to  discover  a  divinity  ;  for 
what  the  Germans  can  least  support,  is  to  see  their  expecta- 
tions deceived  :  their  efforts  and  their  perseverance  render 
some  great  conclusion  needful.  If  no  new  or  strong  thoughts 
are  discovered  in  a  book,  it  is  soon  disdained  ;  and  if  all  is 
pardoned  in  behalf  of  superior  talent,  they  scarcely  know  how 
to  appreciate  the  various  kinds  of  address  displayed  in  endeav- 
oring to  supply  the  want  of  it. 

The  prose  of  the  Germans  is  often  too  much  neglected. 
They  attach  more  importance  to  style  in  France  than  in  Ger- 
many ;  it  is  a  natural  consequence  of  the  interest  excited  by 


14:8  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

words,  ind  the  value  they  must  acquire  in  a  country  where 
society  is  the  first  object.  Every  man  with  a  little  under- 
standing is  a  judge  of  the  justness  or  suitableness  of  such 
and  such  a  phrase,  while  it  requires  much  attention  and  study 
to  take  in  the  whole  compass  and  connection  of  a  book.  Be- 
sides, pleasantries  find  expressions  mucli  sooner  than  thoughts, 
and  in  all  that  depends  on  words  only,  we  laugh  before  we 
reflect. 

It  must  be  agreed,  nevertheless,  that  beauty  of  style  is  not 
merely  an  external  advantage,  for  true  sentiments  almost 
always  inspire  the  most  noble  and  just  expressions ;  and  if  we 
are  allowed  to  be  indulgent  to  the  style  of  a  philosophical 
writing,  we  ought  not  to  be  so  to  that  of  a  literary  compo- 
sition :  in  the  sphere  of  the  fine  arts,  the  form  in  which  a 
subject  is  presented  to  us  is  as  essential  to  the  mind  as  the 
subject  itself. 

The  dramatic  art  offers  a  striking  example  of  the  distinct 
faculties  of  the  two  nations.  All  that  relates  to  action,  to  in- 
trigue, to  the  interest  of  events,  is  a  thousand  times  better 
combined,  a  thousand  times  better  conceived  among  the 
French ;  all  that  depends  on  the  development  of  the  impres- 
sions of  the  heart,  on  the  secret  storms  of  strong  passion,  is 
much  better  investigated  among  the  Germans. 

In  order  to  attain  the  highest  point  of  perfection  in  either 
country,  it  would  be  necessary  for  the  Frenchman  to  be  re- 
ligious, and  the  German  more  a  man  of  the  world.  Piety 
opposes  itself  to  levity  of  mind,  which  is  the  defect  and  the 
grace  of  the  French  nation  ;  the  knowledge  of  men,  and  of 
society,  would  give  to  the  Germans  that  taste  and  facility  in 
literature  which  is  at  present  wanting  to  them.  The  writers 
of  the  two  countries  are  unjust  to  each  other  :  the  French, 
nevertheless,  are  more  guilty  in  this  respect  than  the  Germans  ; 
they  judge  without  knowing  the  subject,  and  examine  after 
they  have  decided  :  the  Germans  are  more  impartial.  Exten- 
sive knowledge  presents  to  us  so  many  different  ways  of  be- 
holding the  same  object,  that  it  imparts  to  the  mind  the  spirit 
of  toleration  which  springs  from  universality. 


GERMAN   LITEKATUKE. 

The  French  would,  however,  gain  more  by  comprehending 
German  genius,  than  the  Germans  would  in  subjecting  them- 
selves to  the  good  taste  of  the  French.  In  our  days,  when- 
ever a  little  foreign  leaven  has  been  allowed  to  mix  itself  with 
French  regularity,  the  French  have  themselves  applauded  it 
with  delight.  J.  J.  Rousseau,  Bernardin  de  Saint  Pierre,  Cha- 
teauuriand,  etc.,  are,  in  some  of  their  works,  even  unknown  to 
themselves,  of  the  German  school ;  that  is  to  say,  they  draw 
their  talent  only  out  of  the  internal  sources  of  the  soul.  But 
if  German  writers  were  to  be  disciplined  according  to  the  pro- 
hibitory laws  of  French  literature,  they  would  not  know  how 
to  steer  amid  the  quicksands  that  would  be  pointed  out  to 
them ;  they  would  regret  the  open  sea,  and  their  minds  would 
be  much  more  disturbed  than  enlightened.  It  does  not  follow 
that  they  ought  to  hazard  all,  and  that  they  would  do  wrong 
in  sometimes  imposing  limits  on  themselves ;  but  it  is  of  con- 
sequence to  them  to  be  placed  according  to  their  own  modes 
of  perception.  In  order  to  induce  them  to  adopt  certain 
necessary  restrictions,  we  must  recur  to  the  principle  of  those 
restrictions  without  employing  the  authority  of  ridicule,  which 
is  always  highly  offensive  to  them. 

Men  of  genius  in  all  countries  are  formed  to  understand  and 
esteem  each  other  ;  but  the  vulgar  class  of  writers  and  readers, 
whether  German  or  French,  bring  to  our  recollection  that  fa- 
ble of  La  Fontaine,  where  the  stork  cannot  eat  in  the  dish,  nor 
the  fox  in  the  bottle.  The  most  complete  contrast  is  perceived 
between  minds  developed  in  solitude,  and  those  formed  by  so- 
ciety. Impressions  from  external  objects,  and  the  inward  re- 
collections of  the  soul,  the  knowledge  of  men  and  abstract  ideas, 
action  and  theory,  yield  conclusions  totally  opposite  to  each 
other.  The  literature,  the  arts,  the  philosophy,  the  religion  of 
these  two  nations,  attest  this  difference  ;  and  the  eternal  boun- 
dary of  the  Rhine  separates  two  intellectual  regions,  which,  no 
less  than  the  two  countries,  are  foreign  to  each  other. 


150  MADAME   DE   STAEI/S    GEEMANY. 


CHAPTER  n. 

OF  THE    JUDGMENT    FORMED    BY  THE     ENGLISH   ON   THE     SUBJECT 
OF    GERMAN    LITERATURE. 

GERMAN  literature  is  much  better  known  in  England  than 
in  France.1  In  England,  the  foreign  languages  are  more  stud- 
ied, and  the  Germans  are  more  naturally  connected  with  the 
English,  than  with  the  French  ;  nevertheless,  prejudices  exist 
even  in  England,  both  against  the  philosophy  and  the  litera- 
ture of  Germany.  It  may  be  interesting  to  examine  the  cause 
of  them. 

The  minds  of  the  people  of  England  are  not  formed  by  a 
taste  for  society,  by  the  pleasure  and  interest  excited  by  con- 
versation. Business,  parliament,  the  administration,  fill  all 
heads,  and  political  interests  are  the  principal  objects  of  their 
meditations.  The  English  wish  to  discover  consequences  im- 
mediately applicable  to  every  subject,  and  from  thence  arises 
their  dislike  of  a  philosophy,  which  has  for  its  object  the  beau- 
tiful rather  than  the  useful. 

The  English,  it  is  true,  do  not  separate  dignity  from  utility, 
and  they  are  always  ready,  when  it  is  necessary,  to  sacrifice 
the  useful  to  the  honorable  ;  but  they  are  not  of  those,  who, 
as  it  is  said  in  Hamlet,  "  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  dis- 
course " — a  sort  of  conversation  of  which  the  Germans  are  very 
fond.  The  philosophy  of  the  English  is  directed  towards  re- 
sults beneficial  to  the  cause  of  humanity  :  the  Germans  pursue 
truth  for  its  own  sake,  without  thinking  on  the  advantages 
which  men  may  derive  from  it.  The  nature  of  their  different 
governments  having  offered  them  no  great  or  splendid  oppor- 


1  It  is  now  much  better  known  in  both  countries  than  when  Madame  de 
Stael  wrote. — Ed. 


GERMAN    LITERATURE.  151 

tuiiity  of  attaining  glory,  or  of  serving  their  country,  they  at- 
tach themselves  to  contemplation  of  every  kind  ;  and,  to  in- 
dulge it,  seek  in  heaven  that  space  which  their  limited  destiny 
denies  to  them  on  earth.  They  take  pleasure  in  the  ideal,  be- 
cause there  is  nothing  in  the  actual  state  of  things  which 
speaks  to  their  imagination.  The  English,  with  reason,  pride 
theaiselves  in  all  they  possess,  in  all  they  are,  and  in  all  that  they 
may  become  ;  they  place  their  admiration  and  love  on  their 
laws,  their  manners,  and  their  forms  of  worship.  These  noble 
sentiments  give  to  the  soul  more  strength  and  energy  ;  but 
thought,  perhaps,  takes  a  bolder  flight,  when  it  has  neither 
limit  nor  determinate  ami,  and  when  incessantly  connecting 
itself  with  the  immense  and  the  infinite,  no  interest  brings  it 
back  to  the  affairs  of  this  world. 

Whenever  an  idea  is  consolidated,  or,  in  other  words,  when 
it  is  changed  into  effect,  nothing  can  be  better  than  to  exam- 
ine attentively  its  consequences  and  conclusions,  and  then  to 
circumscribe  and  fix  them  ;  but  when  it  is  merely  in  theory, 
it  should  be  considered  in  itself  alone.  Neither  practice  nor 
utility  are  the  objects  of  inquiry  ;  and.the  pursuit  of  truth  in 
philosophy,  like  imagination  in  poetry,  should  be  free  from  all 
restraint. 

The  Germans  are  to  the  human  mind  what  pioneers  are  to 
an  army  :  they  try  new  roads,  they  try  unknown  means  :  how 
can  we  avoid  being  curious  to  know  what  they  say  on  their 
return  from  then:  excursions  into  the  infinite  ?  The  English, 
who  have  so  much  originality  of  character,  have  nevertheless 
generally  a  dread  of  new  systems.  Justness  of  thought  has 
been  so  beneficial  to  them  in  the  affairs  of  life,  that  they  like 
to  discover  it  even  in  intellectual  studies  ;  and  yet  it  is  in  these 
that  boldness  is  inseparable  from  genius.  Genius,  provided  it 
respect  religion  and  morality,  should  be  free  to  take  any  flight 
it  chooses  :  it  aggrandizes  the  empire  of  thought. 

Literature,  in  Germany,  is  so  impressed  with  the  reigning 
philosophy,  that  the  repugnance  felt  for  the  one  will  influence 
thu  judgment  we  form  of  the  other.  The  English  have,  how- 
ever, for  some  time,  translated  the  German  poets  with  pleasure, 


152  MADAME   DE   STAEL5S   GERMANY. 

and  do  not  fail  to  perceive  that  analogy  which  ought  to  result 
from  one  common  origin.  There  is  more  sensibility  in  the 
English  poetry,  and  more  imagination  in  that  of  Germany. 
Domestic  affections  holding  great  sway  over  the  hearts  of  the 
English,  their  poetry  is  impressed  with  the  delicacy  and  per- 
manency of  those  affections  :  the  Germans,  more  independent 
in  all  things,  because  they  bear  the  impress  of  no  political  in- 
stitution, paint  sentiments  as  well  as  ideas  through  a  cloud  :  it 
might  be  said  that  the  universe  vacillates  before  their  eyes  ; 
and  even,  by  the  uncertainty  of  their  sight,  those  objects  are 
multiplied,  which  their  talent  renders  useful  to  its  own  pur- 
poses. 

The  principle  of  terror,  which  is  employed  as  one  of  the 
great  means  in  German  poetry,  has  less  ascendency  over  the 
imagination  of  the  English  in  our  days.  They  describe  nature 
with  enthusiasm,  but  it  no  longer  acts  as  a  formidable  power 
which  incloses  phantoms  and  presages  within  its  breast ;  and 
holds,  in  modern  tunes,  the  place  held  by  destiny  among  the 
ancients.  Imagination  in  England  is  almost  always  inspired 
by  sensibility  ;  the  imaginations  of  the  Germans  is  sometimes 
rude  and  wild  :  the  religion  of  England  is  more  austere,  that 
of  Germany  more  vague  ;  and  the  poetry  of  the  two  nations 
must  necessarily  bear  the  impression  of  their  religious  senti- 
ments. In  England  conformity  to  r,ule  does  not  reign  in  the 
arts,  as  it  does  in  France  ;  nevertheless,  public  opinion  holds  a 
greater  sway  there  than  in  Germany.  National  unity  is  the 
cause  of  it.  The  English  wish,  in  all  things,  to  make  princi- 
ples and  actions  accord  with  each  other.  Theirs  is  a  wise  and 
well-regulated  nation,  which  comprises  glory  in  wisdom,  and 
liberty  in  order :  the  Germans,  with  whom  these  are  only  sub- 
jects of  reverie,  have  examined  ideas  independent  of  their  ap- 
plication, and  have  thus  attained  a  higher  elevation  in  theory. 

It  will  appear  strange,  that  the  present  men  of  literature  in 
Germany,  have  shown  themselves  more  averse  than  the  En- 
glish to  the  introduction  of  philosophical  reflections  in  poetry. 
It  is  true,  that  men  of  the  highest  genius  in  English  literature, 
Shakspeare,  Milton,  Dryden  in  his  Odes,  etc.,  are  poets,  who 


GERMAN   LITEKATUEE.  153 

do  not  give  themselves  up  to  a  spirit  of  argumentation  ;  but 
Pope,  and  many  others,  must  be  considered  as  didactic  poets 
and  moralists.  The  Germans  have  renewed  their  youth,  the 
English  are  become  mature.1  The  Germans  profess  a  doctrine 
which  tends  to  revive  enthusiasm  in  the  arts  as  well  as  in  phi- 
losophy, and  they  will  merit  applause  if  they  succeed  ;  for  this 
age  lays  restraints  also  on  them,  and  there  was  never  a  period 
in  which  there  existed  a  greater  inclination  to  despise  all  that 
is  merely  beautiful  ;  none  in  which  the  most  common  of  all 
questions,  What  is  it  good  for  ?  has  been  more  frequently  re- 
peated. 


CHAPTER   III. 

OP   THE    PRINCIPAL    EPOCHS    OF    GERMAN    LITERATURE. 

GERMAN  literature  has  never  had  what  we  are  accustomed 
to  call  a  golden  age  ;  that  is,  a  period  in  which  the  progress 
of  letters  is  encouraged  by  the  protection  of  the  sovereign 
power.  Leo  X,  in  Italy,  Louis  XIV,  in  France,  and,  in  an- 
cient times,  Pericles  and  Augustus,  have  given  their  names  to 
the  age  in  which  they  lived.  We  may  also  consider  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne  as  the  most  brilliant  epoch  of  English  litera- 
ture ;  but  this  nation,  which  exists  by  its  own  powers  has 
never  owed  its  great  men  to  the  influence  of  its  kings.  Ger- 
many was  divided  ;  in  Austria  no  love  of  literature  was  discov- 
ered, and  in  Frederick  II  (who  was  all  Prussia  in  himself  alone), 
no  interest  whatever  for  German  writers.  Literature,  in  Ger- 
many, has  then  never  been  concentrated  to  one  point,  and  has 
never  found  support  in  the  State.  Perhaps  it  owes  to  this 

1  The  English  poets  of  our  times,  without  entering  into  concert  with  the 
Germans,  have  adopted  the  same  system.  Didactic  poetry  has  given  place 
to  the  fictions  of  the  middle  ages,  to  the  empurpled  colors  of  the  East; 
reasoning,  and  eloquence  itself,  are  not  sufficient  to  an  essentially  creative 
,art. 

7* 


154  MADAME  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY. 

abandonment,  as  well  as  to  the  independence  consequent  on 
it,  much  of  its  originality  and  energy. 

"  We  have  seen  poetry,"  says  Schiller,  "  despised  by  Fred- 
erick, the  favored  sou  of  his  country,  fly  from  the  powerful 
throne  which  refused  to  protect  it  ;  but  it  still  dared  to  call 
itself  German  ;  it  felt  proud  in  being  itself  the  creator  of  its 
own  glory.  The  songs  of  German  bards,  resounded  on  the 
summits  of  the  mountain,  were  precipitated  as  torrents  into 
the  valleys  ;  the  poet,  independent,  acknowledged  no  law,  save 
the  impressions  of  his  own  soul — no  sovereign,  but  his  own 
genius." 

It  naturally  followed  from  the  want  of  encouragement  given 
by  government  to  men  of  literary  talent  in  Germany,  that 
their  attempts  were  made  privately  and  individually  in  differ- 
ent directions  and  that  they  arrived  late  at  the  truly  remarka- 
ble period  of  their  literature. 

The  German  language,  for  a  thousand  years,  was  at  first 
cultivated  by  monks,  then  by  knights,  and  afterwards  by  arti- 
sans, such  as  Hans-Sachs,  Sebastian  Brand,  arid  others,  down 
to  the  period  of  the  Reformation  ;  and  latterly,  by  learned 
men,  who  have  rendered  it  a  language  well  adapted  to  all  the 
subtleties  of  thought. 

In  examining  the  works  of  which  German  literature  is  com- 
posed, we  find,  according  to  the  genius  of  the  author,  traces  of 
these  different  modes  of  culture  ;  as  we  see  in  mountains  strata 
of  the  various  minerals  which  the  revolutions  of  the  earth  have 
deposited  in  them.  The  style  changes  its  nature  almost  en- 
tirely, according  to  the  writer  ;  and  it  is  necessary  for  foreign- 
ers to  make  a  new  study  of  every  new  book  which  they  wish- 
to  understand. 

The  Germans,  like  the  greater  part  of  the  nations  of  Europe 
in  the  times  of  chivalry,  had  also  their  troubadours  and  war- 
riors, who  sung  of  love  and  of  battles.  An  epic  poem  has 
lately  been  discovered,  called  the.  Nibdungen  Lied,  which  was 
composed  in  the  thirteenth  century  ;  we  see  in  it  the  heroism 
and  fidelity  which  distinguished  the  men  of  those  tunes,  when 
all  was  as  true,  strong,  and  determinate,  as  the  primitive  colors 


GERMAN   LITER ATUKE.  155 

of  nature.  The  German,  in  this  poem,  is  more  clear  and  sim- 
ple than  it  is  at  present :  general  ideas  were  not  yet  introduced 
into  it,  and  traits  of  character  only  are  narrated.  The  German 
nation  might  then  have  been  considered  as  the  most  warlike 
of  all  European  nations,  and  its  ancient  traditions  speak  only 
of  castles  and  beautiful  mistresses,  to  whom  they  devoted  their 
liv'es.  When  Maximilian  endeavored  at  a  later  period  to  re- 
vive chivalry,  the  human  mind  no  longer  possessed  that  ten- 
dency ;  and  those  religious  disputes  had  already  commenced, 
which  direct  thought  towards  metaphysics,  and  place  the 
strength  of  the  soul  rather  in  opinions  than  in  actions.' 

i  "  The  unknown  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen,  though  no  Shakspeare,  must 
have  had  a  deep  poetic  soul ;  wherein  things  discontinuous  and  inanimate 
shaped  themselves  together  into  life,  and  the  Universe  with  its  wondrous 
purport  stood  significantly  imaged ;  over-arching,  as  with  heavenly  firma- 
ments and  eternal  harmonies,  the  little  scene  where  men  strut  and  fret 
their  hour.  His  Poem,  unlike  so  many  old  and  new  pretenders  to  that 
name,  has  a  basis  and  organic  structure,  a  beginning,  middle,  and  end ; 
there  is  one  great  principle  and  idea  set  forth  in  it,  round  which  all  its 
multifarious  parts  combine  in  living  union,  remarkable  it  is,  moreover, 
how  long  with  this  essence  and  primary  condition  of  all  poetic  virtue,  the 
minor  external  virtues  of  what  we  call  Taste,  and  so  forth,  are,  as  it  were, 
presupposed ;  and  the  living  soul  of  Poetry  being  there,  its  body  of  inci- 
dents, its  garment  of  language,  come  of  their  own  accord.  .  .  .  With 
an  instinctive  art,  far  different  from  acquired  artifice,  this  Poet  of  the 
Nibelungen,  working  in  the  same  province  with  his  contemporaries  of  the 
Ileldtnbuch.  on  the  same  material  of  tradition,  has,  in  a  wonderful  degree, 
possessed  himself  of  what  these  could  only  strive  after;  and  with  his 
4  clear  feeling  of  fictitious  truth '  avoided  as  false  the  errors  and  monstrous 
perplexities  in  which  they  vainly  struggled.  .  .  .  The  language  of  the 
Hddenbuch  was  a  feeble  half-articulate  child's  speech,  the  metre  nothing 
better  than  a  miserable  doggerel;  whereas  here  in  the  old  Prankish  (Ober- 
dutsch)  dialect  of  the  Nibelungen,  we  have  a  clear  decisive  utterance,  and 
in  a  real  system  of  verse,  not  without  essential  regularity,  great  liveliness, 
and  now  and  then  even  harmony  of  rhythm.  Doubtless  we  must  often 
call  it  a  diffuse  diluted  utterance ;  at  the  same  time  it  is  genuine,  with  a 
certain  antique  garrulous  heartiness,  and  has  a  rhythm  in  the  thoughts  as 
well  as  the  words.  The  simplicity  is  never  silly,  even  in  that  perpetual 
recurrence  of  epithets,  sometimes  of  rhymes,  as  where  two  words,  for  in- 
stance lib  (body,  life  leib)  and  tpip  (woman,  wife,  weip)  are  indissolubly 
wedded  together,  and  the  one  never  shows  itself  without  the  other  follow- 
ing— there  is  something  which  reminds  us  not  so  much  of  poverty,  as  of 
trustfulness  and  childlike  innocence.  Indeed  a  strange  charm  lies  in  those 
old  tones,  where,  in  gay  dancing  melodies,  the  sternest  tidings  are  sung  to 


156  MADAME   DE    STAEL'g   GERMANY. 

Luther  essentially  improved  his  language  by  making  it  sub- 
servient to  theological  discussion  :  his  translation  of  the  Psalms 
and  the  Bible  is  still  a  fine  specimen  of  it.  The  poetical  truth 
and  conciseness  which  he  gives  to  his  style,  are,  in  all  respects, 
conformable  to  the  genius  of  the  German  language,  and  even 
the  sound  of  the  words  has  an  indescribable  sort  of  energetic 
frankness,  on  which  we  with  confidence  rely.  The  political 
and  religious  wars,  which  the  Germans  had  the  misfortune  to 
wage  with  each  other,  withdrew  the  minds  of  men  from  litera- 
ture ;  and  when  it  was  again  resumed,  it  was  under  the  aus- 
pices of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV,  at  the  period  in  which  the 
desire  of  imitating  the  French  pervaded  almost  all  the  courts 
and  writers  of  Europe. 

The  works  of  Hagedorn,  of  Gellert,  of  Weiss,  etc.,  were 
only  heavy  French,  nothing  original,  nothing  conformable  to 
the  natural  genius  of  the  nation.  Those  authors  endeavored 
to  attain  French  grace  without  being  inspired  with  it,  either 
by  their  habits  or  their  modes  of  life.  They  subjected  them- 
selves to  rule,  without  having  either  the  elegance  or  taste 
which  may  render  even  that  despotism  agreeable.  Another 
school  soon  succeeded  that  of  the  French,  and  it  was  in  Ger- 
manic Switzerland  that  it  was  erected  :  this  school  was  at  first 


ns ;  and  deep  floods  of  Sadness  and  Strife  play  lightly  in  little  curling  bil- 
lows, like  seas  in  summer.  It  is  as  a  meek  smile,  in  whose  still,  thought- 
ful depths  a  whole  infinitude  of  patience,  and  love,  and  heroic  strength  lie 
revealed.'' — (Carlyle's  Essays.  8vo  edition,  p.  249.) — Ed. 

1  "Utz,  Gellert,  Cramer,  Rainier,  Kleist,  Hagedorn,  Rabener,  Gleim,  and 
a  multitude  of  lesser  men,  whatever  excellences  they  might  want,  certainly 
are  not  chargeable  with  bad  taste.  Nay,  perhaps  of  all  writers  they  are 
the  least  chargeable  with  it :  a  certain  clear,  light,  unaffected  elegance,  of 
a  higher  nature  than  French  elegance,  it  might  be,  yet  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
very  deep  or  genial  qualities,  was  the  excellence  they  strove  after,  and  for 
the  most  part,  in  a  fair  measure  attained.  They  resemble  English  writers 
of  the  same,  or  perhaps  an  earlier  period,  more  than  any  other  foreigners  : 
apart  from  Pope,  whose  influence  is  visible  enough,  Beattie.  Logan,  Wilkie, 
Glover,  unknown  perhaps  to  any  of  them,  might  otherwise  have  almost 
seemed  their  models.  Goldsmith  also  would  rank  among  them ;  perhaps, 
in  regard  to  true  poetic  genius,  at  their  head,  for  none  of  them  has  left  us 
a  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ;  though,  in  regard  to  judgment,  knowledge,  general 
talent,  his  place  would  scarcely  be  so  high.1'— (Ibid.)  p.  23.)— Ed. 


GERMAN    LITERATURE.  157 

founded  on  an  imitation  of  English  writers.  Bodincr,  sup- 
ported by  the  example  of  the  great  Ilaller,  endeavored  to  show, 
that  English  literature  agreed  better  with  the  German  genius 
than  that  of  France.  Gottsched,1  a  learned  man,  without  taste 
or  genius,  contested  this  opinion,  and  great  light  sprung  from 
the  dispute  between  these  two  schools.  Some  men  then  began 
to  strike  out  a  new  road  for  themselves.  Klopstock  held  the 
highest  place  in  the  English  school,  as  Wieland  did  in  that  of 
the  French ;  but  Klopstock  opened  a  new  career  for  his  suc- 
cessors, while  Wieland  was  at  once  the  first  and  the  last  of  the 
French  school  in  the  eighteenth  century.  The  first,  because 
no  other  could  equal  him  in  that  kind  of  writing,  and  the  last, 
because  after  him  the  German  writers  pursued  a  path  widely 
different. 

As  there  still  exist  in  all  the  Teutonic  nations  some  sparks 
of  that  sacred  fire,  which  is  again  smothered  by  the  ashes  of 
time,  Klopstock,  at  first  imitating  the  English,  succeeded  at 
last  in  awakening  the  imagination  and  character  peculiar  to 
the  Germans  ;  and  almost  at  the  same  moment,  Wiuckelmann 
in  the  arts,  Lessing  in  criticism,  and  Goethe  in  poetry,  founded 
a  true  German  school,  if  we  may  so  call  that  which  admits  of 
as  many  differences  as  there  are  individuals  or  varieties  of 
talent.  I  shah1  examine  separately,  poetry,  the  dramatic  art, 
novels,  and  history  ;  but  every  man  of  genius  constituting,  it 
may  be  said,  a  separate  school  in  Germany,  it  appears  to  rne 
necessary  to  begin  by  pointing  out  some  of  the  principal  traits 
which  distinguish  each  writer  individually,  and  by  personally 
characterizing  their  most  celebrated  men  of  literature,  before 
I  set  about  analyzing  their  works. 

i  "  Gottsched  has  been  dead  the  greater  part  of  the  century ;  and,  for  the 
last  fifty  years,  ranks  among  the  Germans  somewhat  as  Prynne  or  Alexan- 
der Ross  does  among  ourselves.  A  man  of  a  cold,  rigid,  perseverant  char- 
acter, who  mistook  himself  for  a  poet  and  the  perfection  of  critics,  and 
had  skill  to  pass  current  during  the  greater  part  of  his  literary  life  for  such. 
On  the  strength  of  his  Boileau  and  Batteux,  he  long  reigned  supreme  ;  but 
it  was  like  Night,  in  rayless  majesty,  and  over  a  slumbering  people.  They 
awoke,  before  his  death,  and  hurled  him,  perhaps  too  indignantly,  into  1.  s 
native  tbyss." — (Carlyle't  Essays,  8vo  edition,  p.  18.) — Ed. 


158  MADAME   DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

WIELAND. 

Or  all  the  Germans  who  have  written  after  the  French 
manner,  Wieland  is  the  only  one  whose  works  have  genius  ; 
and  although  he  has  almost  always  imitated  the  literature  of 
foreign  countries,  we  cannot  avoid  acknowledging  the  great 
services  he  has  rendered  to  that  of  his  own  nation,  by  improv- 
ing its  language,  aud  giving  it  a  versification  more  flowing  and 
harmonious.  There  was  already  in  Germany  a  crowd  of  wri- 
ters, who  endeavored  to  follow  the  traces  of  French  literature, 
such  as  it  was  in  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  Wieland  is  the  first 
who  introduced,  with  success,  that  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
In  his  prose  writings  he  bears  some  resemblance  to  Voltaire, 
and  in  his  poetry  to  Ariosto  ;  but  these  resemblances,  which 
are  voluntary  on  his  part,  do  not  prevent  him  from  being  by 
nature  completely  German.  Wieland  is  infinitely  better  in- 
formed than  Voltaire  ;  he  has  studied  the  ancients  with  more 
erudition  than  has  been  done  by  any  poet  in  France.  Neither 
the  defects,  nor  the  powers  of  Wielaud  allow  him  to  give  to 
his  writings  any  portion  of  the  French  lightness  and  grace. 

In  his  philosophical  novels,  Agathon  and  Peregrinus  Pro- 
teus, he  begins  very  soon  with  analysis,  discussion,  and  meta- 
physics. He  considers  it  as  a  duty  to  mix  with  them  passages 
which  we  commonly  call  flowery  ;  but  we  are  sensible  that  his 
natural  disposition  would  lead  him  to  fathom  all  the  depths  of 
the  subject  which  he  endeavors  to  treat.  In  the  novels  of 
Wieland,  seriousness  and  gayety  are  both  too  decidedly  ex- 
pressed ever  to  blend  with  each  other  ;  for,  in  all  things, 
though  contrasts  are  striking,  contrary  extremes  are  weari- 
some. 

In  order  to  imitate  Voltaire,  it  is  necessary  to  possess  a  sar- 


WIELAJSD.  159 

castic  and  philosophical  irony,  which  renders  us  careless  of 
every  thing,  except  a  poignant  manner  of  expressing  that  irony. 
A  German  can  never  attain  that  brilliant  freedom  of  pleas- 
antry ;  he  is  too  much  attached  to  truth,  he  wishes  to  know 
and  to  explain  what  things  are,  and  even  when  he  adopts 
reprehensible  opinions,  a  secret  repentance  slackens  his  pace 
in  spite  of  himself.  The  Epicurean  philosophy  does  not  suit 
the  German  mind  ;  they  give  to  that  philosophy  a  dogmatical 
character,  while  in  reality  it  is  seductive  only  when  it  presents 
itself  under  light  and  airy  forms  :  as  soon  as  you  invest  it  with 
principles  it  is  equally  displeasing  to  all. 

The  poetical  works  of  Wieland  have  much  more  grace  and 
originality  than  his  prose  writings.  Oberon  and  the  other 
poems,  of  which  I  shall  speak  separately,  are  charming,  and 
full  of  imagination.  Wieland  has,  however,  been  reproached 
for  having  treated  the  subject  of  love  with  too  little  severity, 
and  he  is  naturally  thus  condemned  by  his  own  countrymen, 
who  still  respect  women .  a  little  after  the  manner  of  their 
ancestors  ;  but  whatever  may  have  been  the  wanderings  of 
imagination  which  Wieland  allowed  himself,  we  cannot  avoid 
acknowledging  in  him  a  large  portion  of  true  sensibility  :  he 
has  often  had  a  good  or  bad  intention  of  jesting  on  the  sub- 
ject of  love  ;  but  his  disposition,  naturally  serious,  prevents 
him  from  giving  himself  boldly  up  to  it.  He  resembles  that 
prophet  who  found  himself  obliged  to  bless  where  he  wished 
to  curse,  and  he  ends  in  tenderness  what  was  begun  in  irony. 

In  our  intercourse  with  Wieland  we  are  charmed,  precisely 
because  his  natural  qualities  are  in  opposition  to  his  philoso- 
phy. This  disagreement  might  be  prejudicial  to  him  as  a 
writer,  but  it  renders  him  more  attractive  in  society  ;  he  is 
animated,  enthusiastic,  and,  like  all  men  of  genius,  still  young 
even  in  his  old  age  ;  yet  he  wishes  to  be  skeptical,  and  is  im- 
patient with  those  who  would  employ  his  fine  imagination  in 
the  establishment  of  his  faith. 

Naturally  benevolent,  he  is  nevertheless  susceptible  of  ill- 
humor  ;  sometimes,  because  he  is  not  pleased  with  himself,  and 
sometimes  because  he  is  not  pleased  with  others  :  he  is  not 


160  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GEKMANY. 

pleased  with  himself,  because  he  would  willingly  arrive  at  a 
degree  of  perfection  in  the  manner  of  expressing  his  thoughts, 
of  which  neither  words  nor  things  are  susceptible.  He  does 
not  choose  to  satisfy  himself  with  those  indefinite  terms,  which 
perhaps  agree  better  with  the  art  of  conversation  than  perfec- 
tion itself  :  he  is  sometimes  displeased  with  others,  because 
his  doctrine,  which  is  a  little  relaxed,  and  his  sentiments,  which 
are  highly  exalted,  are  not  always  easily  reconciled.  He  con- 
tains within  himself  a  French  poet  and  a  German  philosopher 
who  are  alternately  angry  with  each  other  ;  but  this  anger  is 
still  very  easy  to  bear  ;  and  his  discourse,  filled  with  ideas  and 
knowledge,  might  supply  many  men  of  talent  with  a  founda- 
tion for  conversation  of  various  sorts.1 


1 "  Wieland,  born  in  1733,  early  displayed  the  characteristics  of  his  later 
years,  and  preluded  to  that  fluctuating  imitation  which,  through  life,  was 
his  inspiration.  He  confessed  that  he  could  read  nothing  with  delight 
which  did  not  set  him  to  work  at  imitating  it ;  and  all  his  works  are  imita- 
tive. He  began  his  studies  at  three  years  of  age,  and  at  seven,  read  Cor- 
nelius Nepos  with  enthusiasm.  Between  his  twelfth  and  sixteenth  yeai  s 
he  read  all  the  Roman  writers,  with  Voltaire,  Fontenelle,  and  Bayle. 
Xenophon  and  Addison  followed ;  and,  in  his  seventeenth  year,  he  wrote 
an  imitation  of  Lucretius  (1751),  and  played  offBayle  and  Leibnitz  against 
Aristotle,  to  the  delight  of  a  public  which  had  the  sublime  stupidity  to 
accept  him  as  the  '  German  Lucretius.'  The  young  Realist  boldly  pro- 
claimed that  happiness  was  the  aim  of  Creation,  the  greatest  psalm  which 
could  be  sung  in  the  Creator's  glory.  He  changed  about,  however,  and 
passed  over  to  the  Pietists  for  a  time  ;  but  the  imitative  tendency  which 
led  him  thither,  as  readily  led  him  away  again  to  Xenophon,  Anacrcon, 
Lucian,  and  the  French.  He  stood  in  terror  of  Lessing ;  and  his  own  dis- 
position, also,  moved  him  towards  lighter,  cheerfuller  views  of  life.  Les- 
siiig  had  made  him  acquainted  with  Shakspeare,  and  his  prose  translation 
of  our  greatest  poet,  which  appeared  in  1762-66,  was  the  best  service  he 
rendered  his  nation. 

"In  1762  Wieland  was  brought  into  contact  with  'good  society' 
through  Graf  Stadion,  and  made  acquaintance  not  only  with  the  world, 
but  with  many  English  and  French  writers  of  the  moral  deistical  school, 
who  completed  his  emancipation  from  the  Pietists,  and  taught  him  how  to 
write  for  '  the  world.'  He  became  the  favorite  poet  of  good  society.  His 
tales  and  poems  were  all  animated  with  an  Epicurean  morality,  and 
written  with  a  certain  lightness  and  grace  (German  lightness  and  German 
grace — they  never  lost  the  national  character)  which  gradually  passed 
Irom  lightness  into  voluptuousness  and  obscenity, — qualities  not  less  ac- 
ceptable to  the  mass  of  his  readers,  in  spite  of  the  indignation  they  roused 


KLOPSTOCK.  161 

The  new  writers,  who  have  excluded  all  foreign  influence 
from  German  literature,  have  been  often  unjust  to  Wieland  ; 
it  is  he,  whose  works,  even  in  a  translation,  have  excited  the 
interested  of  all  Europe  ;  it  is  he  who  has  rendered  the  science 
of  antiquity  subservient  to  the  charms  of  literature  ;  it  is  he 
also,  who,  in  verse,  has  given  a  musical  and  graceful  flexibility 
to  his  fertile  but  rough  language.  It  is  nevertheless  true,  that 
his  country  would  not  be  benefited  by  possessing  many  imita- 
tors of  his  writings  :  national  originality  is  a  much  better 
thing  ;  and  we  ought  to  wish,  even  when  we  acknowledge 
Wieland  to  be  a  great  master,  that  he  may  have  no  disciples. 


CHAPTER  V. 

KLOPSTOCK. 

IN  Germany,  there  have  been  many  more  remarkable  men 
of  the  English  then  of  the  French  school.  Among  the  writers 
formed  by  English  literature,  we  must  first  reckon  the  admira- 
ble Haller,  whose  poetic  genius  served  him  so  effectually,  as 
a  learned  man,  in  inspiring  him  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm 
for  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  most  extensive  views  of  its 
various  phenomena  ;  Gessner,  whose  works  are  even  more  val- 

in  sterner  circles.  He  appealed,  indeed,  piteously  against  his  critics,  from 
hia  lax  writings  to  his  moral  life,  and  wished  they  '  could  see  hi  m  In  his 
quiet  domestic  home  ;  they  would  then  judge  otherwise  of  him.'  In  truth, 
his  life  was  blameless,  and  he  might,  with  Martial,  have  thrown  the 
blame  of  his  writings  on  his  readers  : 

'  Seria  cum  possim,  quod  delectantis  malim 
Scribere ;  tu  causa  es,  lector  amice,  mibi 
Qui  legis  et  tota  cantas  mea  carmina  Roma.' 

At  the  same  time  of  Goethe's  appearance,  Wieland  was  in  his  bad  odor, 
as  we  have  before  noted ;  but  he  lived  through  it,  and  wrote  his  master- 
piece, Oberon,  when  Goethe  was  with  him  in  Weimar." — (G.  II.  Lowes' 
Goethe's  Life  and  Works,  vol.  i.  p.  252.)— Jtf. 


162  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

ued  in  France  than  in.  Germany  ;  Gleim,  Rainier,  etc.,  and 
above  them  all,  Klupstock. 

His  genius  was  inflamed  by  reading  Milton  and  Young  ;  but 
it  was  with  him  that  the  true  German  school  first  began.  He 
expresses,  in  a  very  happy  mauuer,  in  one  of  his  odes,  the  em- 
ulation of  the  two  Muses. 

THE  TWO  MUSES.1 

"  I  saw — oh  !  saw  I  what  the  present  views? 

Saw  I  the  future  ? — for,  with  eager  soul, 
I  saw  the  German  with  the  British  Muse 
Flying  Impetuous  to  the  goal. 

"Two  goals  before  me  did  the  prospect  close, 

And  crown'd  the  race  :  the  oaks  o'ershadow'd  one 
With  their  deep  verdure :  round  the  other  rose 
Tall  palms  beneath  the  evening  sun. 

"Used  to  the  strife,  the  Muse  of  Albion  slept 

Proud  to  the  lists :  as  on  the  burning  sand 
With  the  Maeonian  once,  and  her  who  kept 
The  Capitol,  she  took  her  stand. 

"Her  younger  rival  panted  as  she  came, 

Yet  panted  manly  ;  and  a  crimson  hue 
Kindled  upon  her  cheek  a  noble  flame  ; 
Her  golden  hair  behind  her  flew. 

"She  strove  with  laboring  bosom  to  contain 

Her  breath,  and  leant  her  forward  to  the  prize. 
The  Herald  raised  his  trumpet,  and  the  plain 
Swam  like  a  dream  before  her  eye8. 

"  Proud  of  the  bold  One,  of  herself  more  proud, 

The  Briton  with  her  noble  glance  regards 
Thee,  Tuiscone  :   '  Ha !  in  that  oak-wood 
I  grew  with  thee  among  the  Bards, 

' "  But  the  fame  reach'd  me,  that  thou  wert  no  more ! 

0  Muse,  who  live^t  while  the  ages  roll, 
Forgive  me  that  I  learnt  it  not  before  : 
Now  will  I  learn  it  at  the  goal ! 

1  We  adopt  the  version  of  Mr.  Wm.  Nind.     Odes  of  Klopsttrk,  London. 
1848,  p.  97.—  Ed. 


XLOPSTOCK.  163 

"  '  It  stands  before  us.     But  the  farther  crown 

Seest  thou  beyond?     That  courage  self-possess'd, 
That  silence  proud,  and  fiery  look  cast  down, 
I  know  the  meaning  they  confess'd. 

"  '  Yet  weigh  the  hazard  ere  the  herald  sound  ! 

Was  I  not  her  competitor  who  fills 
Thermopylae  with  song  :  and  hers  renown'd 
Who  reigns  upon  the  Seven  Hills?' 

"  She  spake.     The  moment  of  decision  stern 

Game  with  the  herald.     And  with  eyes  of  fire, 
'  I  love  thee,'  quick  Teutona  did  return  ; 
'  I  love  thee,  Briton,  and  admire  : 

"  '  But  yet  not  more  than  immortality, 

And  those  fair  palms  I     Reach,  if  thy  genius  lead, 
Reach  them  before  me!  but  when  thou  dost,  I 
Will  snatch  with  thee  the  garland  meed. 

"  '  And — how  my  heart  against  its  barrier  knocks ! — 

Perchance  I  shall  be  first  to  gain  the  wreath ; 
Shall  feel  behind  me  on  my  streaming  locks 
The  fervor  of  thy  panting  breath.' 

"  The  herald  sounds  :  they  flew  with  eagle  flight ; 
Behind  them  into  clouds  the  dust  was  toss'd. 
I  looked  ;  but  when  the  oaks  were  pass'd,  my  sight 
In  dimness  of  the  dust  was  lost." 

It  is  thus  that  the  ode  finishes,  and  there  is  a  grace  in  not 
pointing  oat  the  victor. 

I  refer  the  examination  of  Klejpstock's  works,  in  a  literary 
point  of  view,  to  the  chapter  on  German  poetry,  and  I  now 
confine  myself  to  pointing  them  out  as  the  actions  of  his 
life.  The  aim  of  all  his  works  is  either  to  awaken  patriotism 
in  his  country,  or  to  celebrate  religion :  if  poetry  had  its  saints, 
Klopstock  would  certainly  be  reckoned  one  of  the  first  of  them. 

The  greater  part  of  his  odes  may  be  considered  as  Christian 
psalms;  Klopstock  is  the  David  of  the  New  Testament;  but 
that  which  honors  his  character  above  all,  without  speaking  ot 
his  genius,  is  a  religious  hymn,  under  the  form  of  an  epic 
poem,  called  the  Messias,  to  which  he  devoted  twenty  years. 
The  Christian  world  already  possessed  two  poems,  the  Inferno 


164  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

of  Dante,  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost :  one  was  full  of  images 
and  phantoms,  like  the  external  religion  of  the  Italians.  Mil- 
ton, who  had  lived  in  the  midst  of  civil  wars,  above  all  excelled 
in  the  painting  of  his  characters  ;  and  his  Satan  is  a  gigantic 
rebel,  armed  against  the  monarchy  of  heaven.  Klopstock  has 
conceived  the  Christian  sentiment  in  all  its  purity  ;  he  conse- 
crated his  soul  to  the  divine  Savior  of  men.  The  fathers  of 
the  Church  inspired  Dante  ;  the  Bible  inspired  Milton  :  the 
greatest  beauties  of  Klopstock's  poem  are  derived  from  the 
New  Testament  ;  from  the  divine  simplicity  of  the  Gospel,  he 
knew  how  to  draw  a  charming  strain  of  poetry,  which  does  not 
lessen  its  purity.  In  beginning  this  poem,  it  seems  as  if  we 
were  entering  a  great  church,  in  the  midst  of  which  an  organ 
is  heard  ;  and  that  tender  emotion,  that  devout  meditation, 
which  inspires  us  in  our  Christian  temples,  also  pervades  the 
soul  as  we  read  the  Messias.  Klopstock,  in  his  youth,  pro- 
posed to  himself  this  poem  as  the  object  and  end  of  his  exist- 
ence. It  appears  to  me  that  men  would  acquit  themselves 
worthily,  with  respect  to  this  life,  if  a  noble  object,  a  grand 
idea  of  any  sort,  distinguished  their  passage  through  the  world  ; 
and  it  is  already  an  honorable  proof  of  character  to  be  able  to 
direct  towards  one  enterprise  all  the  scattered  rays  of  our  fac- 
ulties, the  results  of  our  labor.  In  whatever  manner  we  judge 
of  the  beauties  and  defects  of  the  Messias,  we  ought  frequently 
to  read  over  some  of  its  verses  :  the  reading  of  the  whole  work 
may  be  wearisome,  but  every  time  that  we  return  to  it,  we 
breathe  a  sort  of  perfume  of  the  soul,  which  makes  us  feel  an 
attraction  to  all  things  holy  and  celestial. 

After  long  labors,  after  a  great  number  of  years,  Klopstock 
at  length  concluded  his  poem.  Horace,  Ovid,  etc.,  have  ex- 
pressed in  various  manners,  the  noble  pride  which  seemed  to 
insure  to  them  the  immortal  duration  of  their  works : 

"Exegi  monumentum  qpre  perennius  ;"  l 
and, 

' '  Nomenque  erit  indelibile  nostrum. ' '  * 

i  "  I  have  erected  a  monument  more  durable  than  brass." 
*  "  The  memory  of  my  name  shall  be  indelible." 


KLOPSTOCK.  165 

A  sentiment  of  a  very  different  nature  penetrated  the  soul  of 
Klopstock  when  his  Messias  was  finished.  He  expresses  it  thus 
in  his  Ode  to  the  Redeemer,  which  is  at  the  end  of  his  poem  : ' 

"  I  hoped  it  for  thee  !  and  I  have  sung, 
0  heavenly  Redeemer,  the  new  Covenant's  song! 
Through  the  fearful  course  have  I  run  ; 
And  thou  hast  my  stumbling  forgiven ! 

"  Begin  the  first  harp-sound, 
0  warm,  winged,  eternal  gratitude  ! 
Begin,  begin,  my  heart  gushes  forth  ! 
And  I  weep  with  rapture  ! 

"  I  implore  no  reward  ;  I  am  already  rewarded, 
With  angel  joy,  for  thee  have  I  sung! 
The  whole  soul's  emotion 
E'en  to  the  depths  of  its  first  power ! 

"  Commotion  of  the  Inmost,  the  heaven 
And  earth  for  me  vanished! 
And  no  more  were  spread  the  wings  of  the  Storm ;  with  gentlest 

feeling, 
Like  the  Spring-time's  morning,  breathed  the  zephyr  of  life. 

1  No  approved  metrical  version  of  Klopstock's  Hymn  being  at  hand,  we 
have  undertaken  a  literal  translation.  We  know  how  unsatisfactory  such 
a  rendering  must  be  to  those  who  are  ame  to  enjoy  the  original,  yet  it  is — 
or  aims  to  be — an  exact  translation  of  the  sense.  The  good  translations  of 
poetry,  those  fulfilling  all  the  requirements  of  a  proper  standard,  are  very 
few ;  they  might  all  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  In  a  poem 
are  many  things  to  be  rendered, — sense,  rhythm,  measure,  rhyme,  and, 
above  all,  that  inner  spirit,  which  poets  alone  can  give,  which  poetic  minds 
alone  can  feel, — all  of  which  must  be  reproduced  in  another  tongue  in 
order  to  make  a  perfect  translation.  A  sense  and  a  measure,  usually  but  a 
distorted  shadow,  or  a  faint  semblance,  of  the  sense  and  the  measure,  are 
usually  given,  and  we  are  urged  to  believe  that  we  have  a  faithful  image  of 
the  original.  Sometimes  we  get  the  measure,  sometimes  the  sense,  but 
rarely  indeed  the  two  combined.  If  we  can  have  but  one  thing,  let  us 
have  the  sense.  And  often  something  of  the  melody  of  the  original  clings 
to  a  literal  version,  especially  when  the  translation  is  made  into  a  cognate 
language :  when  sound  and  sense  are  really  wedded  in  a  poem,  one  cannot 
be  faithfully  transferred,  without  it  retaining  at  least  a  "  shadowy  recollec- 
tion,'' a  platonic  remembrance,  of  the  other.  In  translating  this  piece  of 
Klopstock,  we  have  preserved  to  the  eye,  and  in  part  to  the  ear,  the  lines  of 
the  original ;  we  have  followed  as  closely  as  possible  the  succession  of  words, 
but  have  interrupted  the  measure  whenever  the  same  required  it. — Ed. 


166  MADAMK    DE    STAEI/S    GEKMANY. 

' '  He  knows  not  all  iny  gratitude, 
To  whom  'tis  but  dimly  revealed, 
That,  when  in  its  full  feeling 
The  soul  o'erflows,  speech  can  only  stammer. 

"  Rewarded  am  I,  rewarded  !     I  have  seen 
The  tears  of  Christ  flowing, 
And  dare  yonder  in  the  Future 
Look  for  tears  divine  ! 

"  E'en  through  terrestrial  joy  :  In  vain  conceal  I  from  thee 
My  heart,  of  ambition  full : 
In  youth  it  beat  loud  and  high  ;  in  manhood 
Has  it  beaten  ever,  only  more  subdued. 

"  If  there  be  any  praise,  if  there  be  any  virtue, 
On  these  things  think  !  the  flame  divine  chose  I  for  my  guide ! 
High  waved  the  flame  before,  and  showed 
The  ambitious  a  better  path. 

' '  This  was  the  cause,  that  terrestrial  joy 
With  its  spell  lulled  me  not  to  sleep  ; 
This  round  me  oft  to  return 
And  seek  angel-joys ! 

"  These  roused  me  also,  with  loud  penetrating  silver-tone, 
With  intoxicating  remembrance  of  the  hours  of  consecration, — 
These  same,  these  same  angel-joys, 
With  harp  and  trombone,  with  thunder-call ! 

"  I  am  at  the  goal,  at  the  goal !  and  feel,  where  I  am, 
In  my  whole  soul  a  trembling !  so  will  it  be  (I  speak 
Humanly  of  heavenly  things)  with  us,  in  presence  of  Him, 
Who  died !  and  arose  !  at  the  coming  in  heaven ! 

"  Up  to  this  goal  hast  thou, 
My  Lord !  and  My  God ! 
Over  more  than  one  grave  me, 
With  mighty  arm,  safely  brought ! 

*'  Recovery  gavest  thou  me !  gavest  courage  and  resolution 
In  the  near  approach  of  death  ! 
And  saw  I  things  terrible  and  unknown, 
That  were  to  yield,  since  thou  wast  the  shield  ? 

''  They  fled  therefrom !  and  I  have  sung, 

0  heavenly  Redeemer,  the  new  Covenant's  song ! 
Through  the  fearful  course  have  I  run ! 

1  hoped  it  for  thee  !" 


KLOPSTOCK.  167 

This  mixture  of  poetic  enthusiasm  and  religious  confidence 
inspires  both  admiration  and  tenderness.  Men  of  talents  for- 
merly addressed  themselves  to  fabulous  deities.  Klopstock  has 
consecrated  his  talents  to  God  himself  ;  and,  by  the  happy 
union  of  the  Christian  religion  with  poetry,  he  shows  the  Ger- 
mans how  possible  it  is  to  attain  a  property  in  the  fine  arts, 
which  may  belong  peculiarly  to  themselves,  without  being 
derived,  as  servile  imitations,  from  the  ancients. 

Those  who  have  known  Klopstock,  respect  as  much  as  they 
admire  him.  Religion,  liberty,  love,  occupied  all  his  thoughts. 
His  religious  profession  was  found  in  the  performance  of  all 
his  duties  ;  he  even  gave  up  the  cause  of  liberty  when  inno- 
cent blood  would  have  defiled  it  ;  and  fidelity  consecrated  all 
the  attachments  of  his  heart.  Never  had  he  recourse  to  his 
imagination  to  justify  an  error  ;  it  exalted  his  soul  without 
leading  it  astray. 

It  is  said,  that  his  conversation  was  full  of  wit  and  taste  ; 
that  he  loved  the  society  of  women,  particularly  of  Frenqh 
women,  and  that  he  was  a  good  judge  of  that  sort  of  charm 
and  grace  which  pedantry  reproves.  I  readily  believe  it ;  for 
there  is  always  something  of  universality  in  genius,  and  per- 
haps it  is  connected  by  secret  ties  to  grace,  at  least  to  that 
grace  which  is  bestowed  by  nature. 

How  far  distant  is  such  a  man  from  envy,  selfishness,  excess 
of  vanity,  which  many  writers  have  excused  in  themselves  in 
the  name  of  the  talents  they  possessed  !  If  they  had  possessed 
more,  none  of  these  defects  would  have  agitated  them.  We 
are  proud,  irritable,  astonished  at  our  own  perfections,  when  a 
little  dexterity  is  mixed  with  the  mediocrity  of  our  character  ; 
but  true  genius  inspires  gratitude  and  modesty  ;  for  we  feel 
from  whom  we  received  it,  and  we  are  also  sensible  of  the  limit 
which  he  who  bestowed  has  likewise  assigned  to  it. 

We  find,  in  the  second  part  of  the  Messias,  a  very  fine  pas- 
sage on  the  death  of  Mary,  the  sister  of  Martha  and  Lazarus, 
who  is  pointed  out  to  us  in  the  Gospel  as  the  image  of  contem- 
plative virtue.  Lazarus,  who  has  received  life  a  second  time 
from  Jesus  Christ,  bids  his  sister  farewell  with  a  mixture  of 


168  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

grief  and  of  confidence  which  is  deeply  affecting.  From  the 
last  moments  of  Mary,  Klopstock  has  drawn  a  picture  of  the 
death-bed  of  the  just.  When  in  his  turn  he  was  also  on  his 
death-bed,  he  repeated  his  verses  on  Mary,  with  an  expiring 
voice  ;  he  recollected  them  through  the  shades  of  the  sepul- 
chre, and  in  feeble  accents  he  pronounced  them  as  exhorting 
himself  to  die  well :  thus,  the  sentiments  expressed  in  youth 
were  sufficiently  pure  to  form  the  consolation  of  his  closing 
life. 

Ah  !  how  noble  a  gift  is  genius,  when  it  has  never  been  pro- 
faned, when  it  has  been  employed  only  in  revealing  to  man- 
kind, under  the  attractive  form  of  the  fine  arts,  the  generous 
sentiments  and  religious  hopes  which  have  before  lain  dormant 
in  the  human  heart. 

This  same  passage  of  the  death  of  Mary  was  read  with  the 
burial  service  at  Klopstock's  funeral.  The  poet  was  old  when 
he  ceased  to  live,  but  the  virtuous  man  was  already  in  posses- 
sion of  the  immortal  palms  which  renew  existence  and  flourish 
beyond  the  grave.  All  the  inhabitants  of  Hamburg1  rendered 
to  the  patriarch  of  literature  the  honors  which  elsewhere  are 
scarcely  ever  accorded,  except  to  rank  and  power,  and  the 
manes  of  Klopstock  received  the  reward  which  the  excellence 
of  his  life  had  merited. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

LESSING   AND    W1NCKELMANN. 

PERHAPS  the  literature  of  Germany  alone  derived  its  source 
from  criticism  :  in  every  other  place  criticism  has  followed  the 
great  productions  of  art  ;  but  in  Germany  it  produced  them. 
The  epoch  at  which  literature  appears  in  its  greatest  splendor 

1  "  The  house  in  which  Klopstock  the  poet  lived  thirty  years  (1774-1803), 
and  died,  is  No.  27  in  the  Kbnigstrasse." — {Murray's  Hand-book  of  Northern 
Germany,  p.  322.)— Ed. 


LE6SING-   AND   WINCKELMANN.  1C  9 

is  the  cause  of  this  difference.  Various  nations  had  for  many 
ages  become  illustrious  in  the  art  of  writing  ;  the  Germans  ac- 
quired it  at  a  much  later  period,  and  thought  they  could  do  no 
better  than  follow  the  path  already  marked  out ;  it  was  neces- 
sary then  that  criticism  should  expel  imitation,  in  order  to 
make  room  for  originality.  Lessing  wrote  in  prose  with  unex- 
ampled clearness  and  precision  :  depth  of  thought  frequently 
embarrasses  the  style  of  the  writers  of  the  new  school  ;  Les- 
sing, not  less  profound,  had  something  severe  in  his  character, 
which  made  him  discover  the  most  concise  and  striking 
modes  of  expression.  Lessing  was  always  animated  in  his 
writings  by  an  emotion  hostile  to  the  opinions  he  attacked,  and 
a  sarcastic  humor  gives  strength  to  his  ideas. 

He  occupied  himself  by  turns  with  the  theatre,  with  philo- 
sophy, antiquities,  and  theology,  pursuing  truth  through  all  of 
them,  like  a  huntsman,  who  feels  more  pleasure  in  the  chase 
than  in  the  attainment  of  his  object.  His  style  has,  in  some 
respects,  the  lively  and  brilliant  conciseness  of  the  French  ; 
and  it  conduced  to  render  the  German  language  classical. 
The  writers  of  the  new  school  embrace  a  greater  number  of 
thoughts  at  the  same  time,  but  Lessing  deserves  to  be  more 
generally  admired  ;  he  possesses  a  new  and  bold  genius,  which 
meets  nevertheless  the  common  comprehensions  of  mankind. 
His  modes  of  perception  are  German,  his  manner  of  expression 
European.  Although  a  dialectician,  at  once  lively  and  close 
in  his  arguments,  enthusiasm  for  the  beautiful  filled  his  whole 
soul  ;  he  possessed  ardor  without  glare,  and  a  philosophical 
vehemence  which  was  always  active,  and  which  by  repeated 
strokes  produced  effects  the  most  durable. 

Lessing  analyzed  the  French  drama,  which  was  then  fashion- 
able in  his  country,  and  asserted  that  the  English  drama  was 
more  intimately  connected  with  the  genius  of  his  countrymen. 
In  the  judgment  he  passes  on  Merope,  Zaire,  Semiramis,  and 
Rodogune,  he  notices  no  particular  improbability  ;  he  attacks 
the  sincerity  of  the  sentiments  and  characters,  and  finds  fault 
with  the  personages  of  those  fictions,  as  if  they  were  real  be- 
ings ;  his  criticism  is  a  treatise  on  the  human  heart,  as  much 

VOL.  I.— 8 


170  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GEKMANY. 

as  on  theatrical  poetry.  To  appreciate  with  justice  the  obser- 
vations made  by  Lessing  on  the  dramatic  system  in  general, 
we  must  examine,  as  I  mean  to  do  in  the  following  chapters, 
the  principal  differences  of  French  and  German  opinion  on 
this  subject.  But,  in  the  history  of  literature,  it  is  remarkable 
that  a  German  should  have  had  the  courage  to  criticise  a  great 
French  writer,  and  jest  with  wit  on  the  very  prince  of  jesters, 
Yoltaire  himself. 

It  was  much  for  a  nation,  lying  under  the  weight  of  an 
anathema  which  refused  it  both  taste  and  grace,  to  become 
sensible  that  in  every  country  there  exists  a  national  taste,  a 
natural  grace  ;  and  that  literary  fame  may  be  acquired  in  vari- 
ous ways.  The  writings  of  Lessing  gave  a  new  impulse  to  his 
countrymen  :  they  read  Shakspeare  ;  they  dared  in  Germany 
to  call  themselves  German  ;  and  the  rights  of  originality  were 
established  instead  of  the  yoke  of  correction. 

Lessing  has  composed  theatrical  pieces  and  philosophical 
works  which  deserve  to  be  examined  separately  ;  we  should 
always  consider  German  authors  under  various  points  of  view. 

As  they  are  still  more  distinguished  by  the  faculty  of  thought 
than  by  genius,  they  do  not  devote  themselves  exclusively  to 
any  particular  species  of  composition  ;  reflection  attracts  them 
successively  to  different  careers  of  literature. 

Among  the  writings  of  Lessing,1  one  of  the  most  remark- 


1  "  But  it  is  to  Lessing  that  an  Englishman  would  turn  with  the  readiest 
affection.  We  cannot  but  wonder  that  more  of  this  man  is  not  known 
among  us,  or  that  the  knowledge  of  him  has  not  done  more  to  remove 
such  misconceptions.  Among  all  the  writers  of  the  eighteenth  century — 
we  will  not  except  even  Diderot  and  David  Hume — there  is  not  one  of  a 
more  compact  and  rigid  intellectual  structure  ;  who  more  distinctly  knows 
what  he  is  aiming  at,  or  with  more  gracefulness,  vigor,  and  precision,  sent 
it  forth  to  his  readers.  He  thinks  with  the  clearness  and  pierceness  sharp- 
ness of  the  most  expert  logician ;  hut  a  genial  fire  pervades  him,  a  wit,  a 
heartiness,  a  general  richness  and  fineness  of  nature,  to  which  most  logi- 
cians are  strangers.  He  is  a  skeptic  in  many  things,  but  the  noblest  of 
skeptics ;  a  mild,  manly,  half-careless  enthusiasm  struggles  through  his 
indignant  unbelief:  he  stands  before  us  like  a  toil-worn,  but  unwearied  and 
heroic  champion,  earning  not  the  conquest  but  the  battle  ;  as  indeed  him- 
self admits  to  us,  that  'it is  not  the, finding  of  truth,  but  the  honest  search 


LESSING    AND    WINCKELMANX.  171 

able  is  the  Laocoon  ;  it  characterizes  the  subjects  which  are 
suitable  both  to  poetry  and  painting,  with  as  much  philosophy 
in  the  principles  as  sagacity  in  the  examples  :  nevertheless, 
it  was  Winckelmann  who  in  Germany  brought  about  an 
eiitire  revolution  in  the  manner  of  considering  the  arts,  and 
literature  also,  as  connected  with  the  arts.  I  shall  speak  of 
Mm  elsewhere  under  the  relation  of  his  influence  on  the  arts  ; 
"but  his  style  certainly  places  him  in  the  first  rank  of  German 
writers. 

This  man,  who  at  first  knew  antiquity  only  by  books,  was 
desirous  of  contemplating  its  noble  remains  ;  he  felt  himself 
attracted  with  ardor  towards  the  South  ;  we  still  frequently  find 
in  German  imagination  some  traces  of  that  love  of  the  sun, 


for  it,  that  profits.'  We  confess  we  should  be  entirely  at  a  loss  for  the 
literary  creed  of  that  man  who  reckoned  Lessing  other  than  a  thoroughly 
cultivated  writer, — nay,  entitled  to  rank,  in  this  particular,  with  the  most 
distinguished  writers  of  any  existing  nation.  As  a  poet,  as  a  critic,  philo- 
sopher, or  controversialist,  his  style  will  be  found  precisely  such  as  we  of 
England  are  accustomed  to  admire  most :  brief,  nervous,  vivid,  yet  quiet, 
without  glittter  or  antithesis  ;  idiomatic,  pure  without  purism,  transparent, 
yet  full  of  character  and  reflex  hues  of  meaning.  '  Every  sentence,'  says 
Horn  and  justly, '  is  like  a  phalanx ;'  not  a  word  wrong  placed,  not  a  word 
that  could  be  spared ;  and  it  forms  itself  so  calmly  and  lightly,  and  stands 
in  its  completeness,  so  gay,  yet  so  impregnable  !  As  a  poet,  he  contemptu- 
ously denied  himself  all  merit ;  but  his  readers  have  not  taken  him  at  his 
words :  here,  too,  a  similar  felicity  of  style  attends  him ;  his  plays — his 
Minna  von  Barnhtlm,  his  JSmilie  Galotti,  his  Nathan  der  Weist — have  a 
genuine  and  graceful  poetic  life ;  yet  no  works  known  to  us  in  any  lan- 
guage are  purer  from  exaggeration,  or  any  appearance  of  falsehood.  They 
are  pictures,  we  might  say,  painted  not  in  colors,  but  in  crayons ;  yet  a 
strange  attraction  lies  in  them,  for  the  figures  are  grouped  into  the  finest 
attitudes,  and  true  and  spirit-speaking  in  every  line.  It  is  with  his  style 
chiefly  that  we  have  to  do  here  ;  yet  we  must  add,  that  the  matter  of  his 
works  is  not  less  meritorions.  His  Criticism,  and  philosophic  or  religious 
Skepticism,  were  of  a  higher  mood  than  had  yet.  been  heard  in  Europe,  still 
more  in  Germany ;  his  Dramaturgic  first  exploded  the  pretensions  of  the 
French  theatre,  and,  with  irresistible  conviction,  made  Shakspeare  known 
to  his  countrymen,  preparing  the  way  for  a  brighter  era  in  their  literature, 
the  chief  men  of  which  still  thankfully  look  back  to  Lessing  as  their  patri- 
arch. His  Laocoon,  with  its  deep  glances  into  the  philosophy  of  Art,  his 
Dialogues  of  Freemasons,  a  work  of  far  higher  import  than  its  title  indi- 
cates, may  yet  teach  many  things  to  most  of  us,  which  we  know  not,  and 
ought  to  know." — (Carlyle's  Essays,  p.  22.) — Ed. 


172  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

that  weariness  of  the  Xorth,  which  formerly  drew  so  many 
northern  nations  into  the  countries  of  the  South.  A  fine  sky 
awakens  sentiments  similar  to  the  love  we  bear  to  our  country. 
When  Wiuckelmann,  after  a  long  abode  in  Italy,  returned  to 
Germany,  the  sight  of  snow,  of  the  pointed  roofs  which  it  cov- 
ers, and  of  smoky  houses,  filled  him  with  melancholy.  He  felt 
as  if  he  could  no  longer  enjoy  the  arts,  when  he  no  longer 
breathed  the  air  which  gave  them  birth.  What  contemplative 
eloquence  do  we  not  discover  in  what  he  has  written  on  the 
Apollo  Belvedere  and  the  Laocoon  !  His  style  is  calm  and 
majestic  as  the  object  of  his  consideration.  He  gives  to  the 
art  of  writing  the  imposing  dignity  of  ancient  monuments,  and 
his  description  produces  the  same  sensation  as  the  statue  itself. 
No  one  before  him  had  united  such  exact  and  profound  obser- 
vation with  admiration  so  animated  ;  it  is  thus  only  that  we 
can  comprehend  the  fine  arts.  The  attention  they  excite  must 
be  awakened  by  love  ;  and  we  must  discover  in  the  chefs- 
d'auvre  of  genius,  as  we  do  in  the  features  of  a  beloved  object, 
a  thousand  charms,  which  are  revealed  to  us  by  the  sentiments 
they  inspire. 

Some  poets  before  Winckelmann  has  studied  Greek  trage- 
dies, with  the  purpose  of  adapting  them  to  our  theatres. 
Learned  men  were  known,  whose  authority  was  equal  to  that 
of  books  ;  but  no  one  had  hitherto  (to  use  the  expression) 
rendered  himself  a  pagan  in  order  to  penetrate  antiquity. 
Winckelmann  possesses  the  defects  and  advantages  of  a  Gre- 
cian amateur  ;  and  we  feel  in  his  writings  the  worship  of 
beauty,  such  as  it  existed  in  a  nation  where  it  so  often  obtained 
the  honors  of  apotheosis. 

Imagination  and  learning  equally  lent  their  different  lights 
to  Winckelmann  ;  before  him  it  was  thought  that  they  mutu- 
ally excluded  each  other.  He  has  shown  us  that  to  understand 
the  ancients,  one  was  as  necessary  as  the  other.  We  can  give 
lite  to  objects  of  art  only  by  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
country  and  with  the  epoch  in  which  they  existed.  We  are  not 
interested  by  features  which  are  indistinct.  To  animate  recitals 
and  fictions,  where  past  ages  are  the  theatres,  learning  must 


LESSING    AND    WINCKELMANN.  173 

ever  assist  the  imagination,  and  render  it,  if  possible,  a  specta- 
tor of  what  it  is  to  paint,  and  a  contemporary  of  what  it  relates. 

Zadig  guessed,  by  some  confused  traces,  some  words  half 
torn,  at  circumstances  which  he  deduced  from  the  slightest 
indications.  It  is  thus  that  through  antiquity  we  must  take 
learning  for  our  guide  :  the  vestiges  which  we  perceive  are 
interrupted,  effaced,  difficult  to  lay  hold  of  ;  but  by  making 
use  at  once  of  imagination  and  study,  we  bring  back  time,  and 
renew  existence. 

When  we  appeal  to  tribunals  to  decide  on  the  truth  of  a 
fact,  it  is  sometimes  a  slight  circumstance  which  makes  it  clear. 
Imagination  is  in  this  respect  like  a  judge  ;  a  single  word,  a  cus- 
tom, an  allusion  found  in  the  works  of  the  ancients,  serves  it  as 
a  light,  by  which  it  arrives  at  the  knowledge  of  perfect  truth. 

Winkelmann  knew  how  to  apply  to  his  inspection  of  the 
monuments  of  the  arts,  that  spirit  of  judgment  which  leads  us 
to  the  knowledge  of  men  :  he  studied  the  physiognomy  of  the 
statue  as  he  would  have  done  that  of  a  human  being.  He 
seized  with  great  justness  the  slightest  observations,  from 
which  he  knew  how  to  draw  the  most  striking  conclusions.  A 
certain  physiognomy,  and  emblematical  attribute,  a  mode  of 
drapery,  may  at  once  cast  an  unexpected  light  on  the  longest 
researches.  The  locks  of  Ceres  are  thrown  back  with  a  disor- 
der that  would  be  unsuitable  to  the  character  of  Minerva  ;  the 
loss  of  Proserpine  has  forever  troubled  the  mind  of  her  mother. 
Minos,  the  son  and  disciple  of  Jupiter,  has  in  OUT  medals  the 
same  features  as  his  father  ;  nevertheless  the  calm  majesty  of 
the  one,  and  the  severe  expression  of  the  other,  distinguish 
the  sovereign  of  the  gods  from  the  judge  of  men.  The  Torso 
is  a  fragment  of  the  statue  of  Hercules  deified, — of  him  who 
received  from  Hebe  the  cup  of  immortality  ;  while  the  Farue- 
sian  Hercules  yet  possesses  only  the  attributes  of  a  mortal  ; 
each  contour  of  the  Torso,  as  energetic  as  this,  but  more 
rounded,  still  characterizes  the  strength  of  the  hero  ;  but  of  the 
hero  who,  placed  in  heaven,  is  thenceforth  freed  from  the  rude 
labors  of  the  earth.  All  is  symbolical  in  the  arts,  and  nature 
shows  herself  under  a  thousand  different  appearances  in  tho^o 


174:  MADAME   DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

pictures,  in  that  poetry,  where  immobility  must  indicate  mo- 
tion, where  the  inmost  soul  must  be  externally  displayed,  and 
whei-3  the  existence  of  a  moment  must  last  to  eternity. 

Wiuckelmann  has  banished  from  the  fine  arts  in  Europe  the 
mixture  of  ancient  and  modern  taste.  In  Germany,  his  Influ- 
ence has  been  still  more  displayed  in  literature  than  in  the 
arts.  We  shall,  in  what  follows,  be  led  to  examine  whether 
the  scrupulous  imitation  of  the  ancients  is  compatible  with 
natural  originality  ;  or  rather,  whether  we  ought  to  sacrifice 
that  originality  in  order  to  confine  ourselves  to  the  choice  of 
subjects,  in  which  poetry,  like  painting,  having  no  model  in 
existence,  can  represent  only  statues.  But  this  discussion  is 
foreign  to  the  merit  of  Winckelmann  :  hi  the  fine  arts,  he  has 
shown  us  what  constituted  taste  among  the  ancients  ;  it  v/as 
for  the  moderns,  in  this  respect,  to  feel  what  it  suited  them  to 
adopt  or  to  reject.  When  a  man  of  genius  succeeds  in  dis- 
playing secrets  of  an  antique  or  foreign  nature,  he  renders 
service  by  the  impulse  which  he  traces  :  the  emotion  thus  re- 
ceived becomes  part  of  ourselves  ;  and  the  greater  the  truth 
that  accompanies  it,  the  less  servile  is  the  imitation  it  inspires. 

Winckelmann  has  developed  the  true  principles,  now  admit- 
ted into  the  arts,  of  the  nature  of  the  ideal  ;  of  that  perfect 
nature,  of  which  the  type  is  in  our  imagination,  and  does  not 
exist  elsewhere.  The  application  of  these  principles  to  litera- 
ture is  singularly  productive. 

The  poetic  of  all  the  arts  is  united  under  the  same  point  of 
view  in  the  writings  of  Winckehnann,  and  all  have  gained  by 
it.  Poetry  has  been  better  comprehended  by  the  aid  of  sculp- 
ture, and  sculpture  by  that  of  poetry  :  and  we  have  been  led 
by  the  arts  of  Greece  to  her  philosophy.  Idealistic  metaphys- 
ics originate  with  the  Germans,  as  they  did  formerly  with  the 
Greeks,  in  the  adoration  of  supreme  beauty,  which  our  souls 
alone  can  conceive  and  acknowledge.  This  supreme  ideal 
beauty  is  a  reminiscence  of  heaven,  our  original  country  ;  the 
sculptures  of  Phidias,  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles,  and  the  doc- 
trines of  Plato,  all  agree  to  give  us  the  same  idea  of  it  under 
different  forms. 


GOETHE.  175 


CHAPTER   VII. 

GOETHE 

THAT  which  was  wanting  to  Klopstock  was  a  creative  imagi- 
nation :  he  gave  utterance  to  great  thoughts  and  noble  senti- 
ments hi  beautiful  verse  ;  but  he  was  not  what  might  be  called 
an  artist.  His  inventions  are  weak  ;  and  the  colors  in  which 
he  invests  them  have  scarcely  even  that  plenitude  of  strength 
that  we  delight  to  meet  with  in  poetry,  and  in  all  other  arts 
which  are  expected  to  give  to  fiction  the  energy  and  original- 
ity of  nature.  Klopstock  loses  himself  in  the  ideal.  Goethe 
never  gives  up  the  earth,  even  in  attaining  the  most  sublime 
conceptions,  his  mind  possesses  vigor  not  weakened  by  sensi- 
bility. Goethe  might  be  regarded  as  the  representative  of  all 
German  literature  ;  not  that  there  are  no  writers  superior  to 
him  in  different  kinds  of  composition,  but  that  he  unites  in 
himself  alone  all  the  distinguishes  German  genius  ;  and  no 
one  besides  is  so  remarkable  for  a  peculiar  species  of  imagina- 
tion which  neither  Italians,  English,  nor  French  have  ever 
attained. 

Goethe  having  displayed  his  talents  in  composition  of  vari- 
ous kinds,  the  examination  of  his  works  will  find  the  greatest 
part  of  the  following  chapters  ;  but  a  personal  knowledge  of 
the  man  who  possesses  such  an  influence  over  the  literature  of 
his  country  will,  it  appears  to  me,  assist  us  the  better  to  under- 
stand that  literature.1 

i  "  The  Duchess  Amalia  was  enchanted  with  her  [Madame  de  Stael],  and 
the  duke  wrote  to  Goethe,  who  was  at  Jena,  begging  him  to  come  over,  and 
be  seen  by  her ;  which  Goethe  very  positively  declined.  He  said,  if  she 
wished  very  much  to  see  him,  and  would  come  to  Jena,  she  should  be  very 
heartily  welcomed  ;  a  comfortable  lodging  and  a  bourgeois  table  would  be 
offered  her,  and  every  day  they  could  have  some  hours  together  when  hia 
business  was  over ;  but  he  could  not  undertake  to  go  to  court,  and  into 


176  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GEKMAXY. 

Goethe  possesses  superior  talents  for  conversation  ;  and  what- 
ever we  may  say,  superior  talents  ought  to  enable  a  man  to 
talk.  We  may,  however,  produce  some  examples  of  silent  men 
of  genius  :  timidity,  misfortune,  disdain,  or  ennui,  are  often  the 
cause  of  it ;  but,  in  general,  extent  of  ideas  and  warmth  of  soul 
naturally  inspire  the  necessity  of  communicating  our  feelings 
to  others  ;  and  those  men  who  will  not  be  judged  by  what 
they  say,  may  not  deserve  that  we  should  interest  ourselves  in 
what  they  think.  When  Goethe  is  induced  to  talk,  he  is  ad- 
mirable ;  his  eloquence  is  enriched  with  thought ;  his  pleas- 
antry is,  at  the  same  time,  full  of  grace  and  of  philosophy  ;  his 
imagination  is  impressed  by  external  objects,  as  was  that  of  the 
ancient  artists  ;  nevertheless  his  reason  possesses  but  too  much 
the  maturity  of  our  own  times.  Nothing  disturbs  the  strength 
of  his  mind,  and  even  the  defects  of  his  character,  ill-humor, 
embarrassments,  constraint,  pass  like  clouds  round  the  foot  of 
that  mountain  on  the  summit  of  which  his  genius  is  placed. 

What  is  related  of  the  conversation  of  Diderot  may  give 
some  idea  of  that  of  Goethe  ;  but,  if  we  may  judge  by  the 
writings  of  Diderot,  the  distance  between  these  two  men  must 
be  infinite.  Diderot  is  the  slave  of  his  genius  ;  Goethe  ever 


.  society  ;  he  did  not  feel  himself  strong  enough.  In  the  beginning  of  1804. 
however,  he  came  to  Weimar,  and  there  he  made  her  acquaintance,  that 
i.s  to  say,  he  received  her  in  his  own  house,  at  first  tete-a-tete,  and  after- 
wards in  small  circles  of  friends. 

"  Except  when  she  managed  to  animate  him  by  her  paradoxes,  or  wit,  he 
was  cold  and  formal  to  her,  even  more  so  than  to  other  remarkable  people  ; 
and  he  has  told  us  the  reason.  Kousseau  had  been  drawn  into  a  corre- 
spondence with  two  women,  who  addressed  themselves  to  him  as  admir- 
ers ;  he  had  shown  himself  in  this  correspondence  by  no  means  to  his 
advantage,  now  (1803)  that  the  letters  appeared  in  print.  Goethe  had 
read  or  heard  of  this  correspondence,  and  Madams  de  Stael  had  frankly 
told  him  she  intended  to  print  his  conversation. 

"  This  was  enough  to  make  him  ill  at  ease  in  her  society ;  and  although 
she  said  he  was  •  un  homme  d'un  esprit  prodigieux  en  conversation  .... 
qu.tu.l  on  le  sait  faire  parlor  il  est  admirable,'  she  never  saw  the  real,  but 
a  factitious  Goethe.  By  dint  of  provocation — and  champagne — she  man- 
aged to  make  him  talk  brilliantly ;  she  never  got  him  to  talk  to  her  seri- 
ously. On  the  29th  of  February,  she  left  Weimar,  to  the  great  relief  both 
of  Goethe  and  Schiller."— (Lewes,  Life  of  Goethe,  vol  ii.  p.  274.) 


GOETHE.  177 

holds  the  powers  of  his  mind  in  subjection  :  Diderot  is  affected, 
from  the  constant  endeavor  to  produce  effect  ;  but  in  Goethe 
we  perceive  disdain  of  success,  and  that  to  a  degree  that  is 
singularly  pleasing,  even  when  we  have  most  reason  to  find 
fault  with  his  negligence.  Diderot  finds  it  necessary  to  supply 
by  philanthropy  his  want  of  religious  sentiments  :  Goethe  is 
inclined  to  be  more  bitter  than  sweet ;  but,  above  all,  he  is 
natural ;  and,  in  fact,  without  this  quality,  what  is  there  in  one 
man  that  should  have  power  to  interest  another  ? 

Goethe  possesses  no  longer  that  resistless  ardor  which  in- 
inspired  him  in  the  composition  of  Werther  ;  but  the  warmth  of 
his  imagination  is  still  sufficient  to  animate  every  thing.  It 
might  be  said,  that  he  is  himself  unconnected  with  life,  and 
that  he  describes  it  merely  as  a  painter.  He  attaches  more 
value,  at  present,  to  the  pictures  he  presents  to  us,  than  to  the 
emotions  he  experiences  ;  tune  has  rendered  him  a  spectator. 
While  he  still  bore  a  part  in  the  active  scenes  of  the  passions, 
while  he  suffered,  in  his  own  person,  from  the  perturbations  of 
the  heart,  his  writings  produced  a  more  lively  impression. 

As  we  do  not  always  best  appreciate  our  own  talents,  Goethe 
maintains  at  present,  that  an  author  should  be  calm  even  when 
he  is  writing  a  passionate  work  ;  and  that  an  artist  should 
equally  be  cool,  in  order  the  more  powerfully  to  act  on  the 
imagination  of  his  readers.  Perhaps  in  early  life,  he  would  not 
have  entertained  this  opinion  ;  perhaps  he  was  then  enslaved 
by  his  genius,  rather  than  its  master  ;  perhaps  he  then  felt 
that  the  sublime  and  heavenly  sentiment  being  of  transient 
duration  in  the  heart  of  man,  the  poet  is  inferior  to  the  inspi- 
ration which  animates  him,  and  cannot  enter  into  judgment  on 
it,  without  losing  it  at  once. 

At  first  we  are  astonished  to  find  coldness,  and  even  some- 
thing like  stiffness,  in  the  author  of  Werther ;  but  when  we  can 
prevail  on  him  to  be  perfectly  at  his  ease,  the  liveliness  of  his 
imagination  makes  the  restraint  which  we  first  felt  entirely 
disappear.  He  is  a  man  of  universal  mind,  and  impartial  be- 
cause universal ;  for  there  is  no  indifference  in  his  impartiality  : 
his  is  a  double  existence,  a  double  degree  of  strength,  a  double 

8« 


ITS  MADAME    DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

light,  which  on  all  subjects  enlightens  at  once  both  sides  of  the 
question.  When  it  is  necessary  to  think,  nothing  arrests  his 
course ;  neither  the  age  in  which  he  lives,  nor  the  habits  he 
has  formed,  nor  his  relations  with  social  life :  his  eagle  glance 
falls  decidedly  on  the  object  he  observes.  If  his  career  had 
been  a  political  one,  if  his  soul  had  developed  itself  by  actions, 
his  character  would  have  been  more  strongly  marked,  more 
firm,  more  patriotic  ;  but  his  mind  would  not  have  taken  so 
wide  a  range  over  every  different  mode  of  perception  ;  passion 
or  interests  would  then  have  traced  out  to  him  a  positive  path. 

Goethe  delights  in  his  writings,  as  well  as  in  his  conver- 
sation, to  break  the  thread  which  he  himself  has  spun,  to 
destroy  the  emotions  he  excites,  to  throw  down  the  image  he 
has  forced  us  to  admire.  When,  in  his  fictions,  he  inspires  us 
with  interest  for  any  particular  character,  he  soon  shows  the 
inconsistences  which  are  calculated  to  detach  us  from  it.  He 
disposes  of  the  poetic  world,  like  a  conqueror  of  the  real  earth  ; 
and  thinks  himself  strong  enough  to  introduce,  as  nature  some- 
times does,  the  genius  of  destruction  into  his  own  works.  If 
he  were  not  an  estimable  character,  we  should  be  afraid  of  this 
species  of  superioity  which  elevates  itself  above  all  things  ; 
which  degrades  and  then  again  raises  up  ;  which  affects  us, 
and  then  laughs  at  our  emotion  ;  which  affirms  and  doubts  by 
turns,  and  always  with  the  same  success. 

I  have  said  that  Goethe  possessed  in  himself  alone  all  the 
principal  features  of  German  genius  ;  they  are  all  indeed  found 
in  him  to  an  eminent  degree  :  a  great  depth  of  ideas,  that 
grace  which  springs  from  imagination — a  grace  far  more  ori- 
ginal than  that  which  is  formed  by  the  spirit  of  society : 
in  short,  a  sensibility  sometimes  bordering  on  the  fantastic, 
but  for  that  very  reason  the  more  calculated  to  interest 
readers,  who  seek  in  books  something  that  may  give  varie- 
ty to  their  monotonous  existence,  and  in  poetry,  impressions 
which  may  supply  the  want  of  real  events.  If  Goethe  were 
a  Frenchman,  he  would  be  made  to  talk  from  morning  till 
night :  all  the  authors,  who  were  contemporary  with  Dide- 
rot, went  to  derive  ideas  from  his  conversation,  and  afforded 


SCH1LLEK.  179 

him,  at  the  same  time,  an  habitual  enjoyment  from  the  ad- 
miration he  inspired.  The  Germans  know  not  how  to  make 
use  of  their  talents  in  conversation,  and  so  few  people,  even 
among  the  most  distinguished,  have  the  habit  of  interro- 
gating and  answering,  that  society  is  scarcely  at  all  es- 
teemed among  them  ;  but  the  influence  of  Goethe  is  not  the 
less  extraordinary.  There  are  a  great  many  people  in  Ger- 
many who  would  think  genius  discoverable  even  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  letter,  if  it  were  written  by  him.  The  admirers  of 
Goethe  form  a  sort  of  fraternity,  in  which  the  rallying  words 
serve  to  discover  the  adepts  to  each  other.  When  foreigners 
also  profess  to  admire  him,  they  are  rejected  with  disdain,  if 
certain  restrictions  leave  room  to  suppose  that  they  have  al- 
lowed themselves  to  examine  works  which  nevertheless  gain 
much  by  examination.  No  man  can  kindle  such  fanaticism 
without  possessing  great  faculties,  whether  good  or  bad ;  for 
there  is  nothing  but  power,  of  whatever  kind  it  may  be,  which 
men  sufficiently  dread  to  be  excited  by  it  to  a  degree  of  love 
so  enthusiastic. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SCHILLER. 

SCHILLER  was  a  man  of  uncommon  genius  and  of  perfect 
sincerity  ;  these  two  qualities  ought  to  be  inseparable  at  least 
in  a  literary  character.  Thought  can  never  be  compared  with 
action,  but  when  it  awakens  in  us  the  image  of  truth.  False- 
hood is  still  more  disgusting  in  writing  than  in  conduct.  Ac- 
tions even  of  the  most  deceitful  kind  still  remain  actions,  and 
we  know  what  we  have  to  depend  on,  either  in  judging  or 
hating  them  ;  but  writings  are  only  a  vain  mass  of  idle  words, 
when  they  do  not  proceed  from  sincere  conviction. 

There  is  not  a  nobler  course  than  that  of  literature,  when  it 
is  pursued  as  Schiller  pursued  it.  It  is  true,  that  in  Germany 


180  MADAME   DE   STAEL's   GERMANY. 

there  is  so  much  seriousness  and  probity,  that  it  is  there  alone 
we  can  be  completely  acquainted  with  the  character  and  the 
duties  of  every  vocation.  Nevertheless  Schiller  was  admirable 
among  them  all,  both  with  respect  to  his  virtues  and  his  talents. 
His  Muse  was  Conscience  :  she  needs  no  invocation,  for  we 
hear  her  voice  at  all  times,  when  we  have  once  listened  to  it 
He  loved  poetry,  the  dramatic  art,  history,  and  literature  in 
general,  for  its  own  sake.  If  he  had  determined  never  to  pub- 
lish his  works,  he  would  nevertheless  have  taken  the  same 
pains  in  writing  them ;  and  no  consideration,  drawn  either 
from  success,  from  the  prevailing  fashion,  from  prejudice,  or 
from  any  thing,  in  short,  that  proceeds  from  others,  could  ever 
have  prevailed  on  him  to  alter  his  writings ;  for  his  writings 
were  himself :  they  expressed  his  soul ;  and  he  did  not  con- 
ceive the  possibility  of  altering  a  single  expression,  if  the  inter- 
nal sentiment  which  inspired  it  had  undergone  no  change. 
Schiller,  doubtless,  was  not  exempt  from  self-love ;  for  if  it  be 
necessary,  in  order  to  animate  us  to  glory,  it  is  likewise  so  to 
render  us  capable  of  any  active  exertion  whatever ;  but  nothing 
diifers  so  much  from  another  in  its  consequences  as  vanity  and 
the  love  of  fame  :  the  one  seeks  successes  by  fraud,  the  other 
endeavors  to  command  it  openly  ;  this  feels  inward  uneasiness 
and  lies  cunningly  in  wait  for  piiblic  opinion ;  that  trusts  its 
own  powers,  and  depends  on  natural  causes  alone  for  strength 
to  subdue  all  opposition.  In  short,  there  is  a  sentiment  even 
more  pure  than  the  love  of  glory,  which  is  the  love  of  truth  : 
it  is  this  love  that  renders  literary  men  like  the  warlike  preach- 
ers of  a  noble  cause  ;  and  to  them  should  henceforth  be  as- 
signed the  charge  of  keeping  the  sacred  fire  ;  for  feeble  women 
are  no  longer,  as  formerly,  sufficient  for  its  defence. 

Innocence  in  genius,  and  candor  in  power,  are  both  noble 
qualities.  Our  idea  of  goodness  is  sometimes  debased  by  asso- 
ciating it  with  that  of  weakness  ;  but  when  it  is  united  to  the 
highest  degree  of  knowledge  and  of  energy,  we  comprehend  in 
what  sense  the  Bible  has  told  us,  that  "  God  made  man  after 
his  own  image."  Schiller  did  himself  an  injury,  when  he  first 
entered  into  the  world,  by  the  wanderings  of  his  imagination  ; 


SCHILLER.  181 

but  with  the  maturity  of  age,  lie  recovered  that  sublime  purity 
which  gives  birth  to  noble  thought.  With  degrading  senti- 
ments he  held  no  intercourse.  He  lived,  he  spoke,  he  acted, 
as  if  the  wicked  did  not  exist ;  and  when  he  described  them 
in  his  works,  it  was  with  more  exaggeration  and  less  depth  of 
observation  than  if  he  had  really  known  them.  The  wicked 
presented  themselves  to  his  imagination  as  an  obstacle  in  na- 
ture, as  a  physical  scourge;  and  perhaps,  in  many  respects, 
they  have  no  intellectual  being ;  the  habit  of  vice  has  changed 
their  souls  into  a  perverted  instinct. 

Schiller  was  the  best  of  friends,  the  best  of  fathers,  the  best 
of  husbands ;  no  quality  was  wanting  to  complete  that  gentle 
and  peaceful  character  which  was  animated  by  the  firt  of  ge- 
nius alone ;  the  love  of  liberty,  respect  for  the  female  sex,  en- 
thusiasm for  the  fine  arts,  adoration  of  the  Divinity,  inspired 
his  mind ;  and  in  the  analysis  of  his  works  it  would  be  easy  to 
point  out  to  what  particular  virtue  we  owe  the  various  produc- 
tions of  his  masterly  pen.  It  has  been  said  that  genius  is  all- 
sufficient.  I  believe  it,  where  knowledge  and  skill  preside ; 
but  when  we  seek  to  paint  the  storms  of  human  nature,  or 
fathom  it  in  its  unsearchable  depths,  the  powers  even  of  imagi- 
nation fail ;  we  must  possess  a  soul  that  has  felt  the  agitation 
of  the  tempest,  but  into  which  the  Divine  Spirit  has  descended 
to  restore  its  serenity.1 

1  "  Of  his  noble  sense  of  truth,  both  in  speculation  and  in  action  ;  of  his 
deep,  genial  insight  into  nature ;  and  the  living  harmony  in  which  he  ren- 
ders back  what  is  highest  and  grandest  in  Nature,  no  reader  of  his  works 
need  be  reminded.  In  whatever  belongs  to  the  pathetic,  the  heroic,  the 
tragically  elevating,  Schiller  is  at  home ;  a  master ;  nay,  perhaps  the  great- 
est of  all  late  poets.  To  the  assiduous  student,  moreover,  much  else  that 
lay  in  Schiller,  but  was  never  worked  into  shape,  will  become  partially 
visible :  deep  inexhaustible  mines  of  thought  and  feeling ;  a  whole  world 
of  gifts,  the  finest  produce  of  which  was  but  beginning  to  be  realized.  To 
his  high-minded,  unwearied  efforts,  what  was  impossible,  had  length  of 
years  been  granted  him !  There  is  a  tone  in  some  of  his  later  pieces, 
which  here  and  there  breathes  of  the  very  highest  region  of  art.  Nor  are 
the  natural  or  accidental  defects  we  have  noticed  in  his  genius,  even  as  it 
stands,  such  as  to  exclude  him  from  the  rank  of  great  Poets.  Poets  whoir 
the  whole  world  reckons  great,  have,  more  than  once,  exhibited  the  like. 
Milton,  for  example,  shares  most  of  them  with  him :  like  Schiller,  he  dwells 


182  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

I  saw  Schiller,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  saloon  of  the  Duke 
and  Duchess  of  Weimar,  in  the  presence  of  a  society  as  enlight- 
ened as  it  was  exalted.  He  read  French  very  well,  but  he  had 
never  spoken  it.  I  maintained,  with  some  warmth,  the  supe- 
riority of  our  dramatic  system  over  that  of  all  others ;  he  did 
not  refuse  to  enter  the  lists  with  me,  and  without  feeling  any 
uneasiness  from  the  difficulty  and  slowness  with  which  lie  ex- 
pressed himself  in  French,  without  dreading  the  opinion  of  his 
audience,  which  was  all  against  him,  his  conviction  of  being 
right  impelled  him  to  speak.  In  order  to  refute  him,  I  at  first 
made  use  of  French  arms — vivacity  and  pleasantry  ;  but  in 
what  Schiller  said,  I  soon  discovered  so  many  ideas  through 
the  impediment  of  his  words  ;  I  was  so  struck  with  that  sim- 
plicity of  character,  which  led  a  man  of  genius  to  engage  him- 
self thus  in  a  contest  where  speech  was  wanting  to  express  his 

witi  full  power,  only  in  the  high  and  earnest ;  in  all  other  provinces  ex 
hibiting  a  certain  inaptitude,  an  elephantine  vinpliancy :  he  too  has  little 
Humor;  his  coarse  invective  has  in  it  contemptuous  emphasis  enough,  yet 
scarcely  any  graceful  sport.  Indeed,  on  the  positive  side  also,  these  two 
worthies  are  not  without  a  resemblance.  Under  far  other  circumstances, 
with  less  massiveness,  and  vehement  strength  of  soul,  there  is  in  Schiller 
the  same  intensity ;  the  same  concentration,  and  towards  similar  objects, 
towards  whatever  is  sublime  in  Nature  and  in  Art,  which  sublimities,  they 
both,  each  in  his  several  way,  worship  with  undivided  heart.  There  is 
not  in  Schiller's  nature  the  same  rich  complexity  of  rhythm,  as  in  Milton's 
with  its  depth  of  linked  sweetness  ;  yet  in  Schiller,  too,  there  is  something 
of  the  same  pure,  swelling  forcv,  some  tone  which,  like  Milton's,  is  deep, 
majestic,  solemn. 

"  It  was  as  a  dramatic  author  that  Schiller  distinguished  himself  to  the 
world:  yet  often  we  feel  as  if  chance  rather  than  a  natural  tendency  had 
led  him  into  this  province ;  as  if  his  talent  were  essentially,  in  a  certain 
style,  lyrical,  perhaps  even  epic,  rather  than  dramatic.  He  dwelt  within 
himself,  and  could  not  without  effort,  and  then  only  within  a  certain  range, 
body  forth  other  forms  of  being.  Nay,  much  of  what  is  called  hiw  poetry 
seems  to  us  oratorical  rather  than  poetical ;  his  first  bias  might  have  led 
him  to  be  a  speaker,  rather  than  a  singer.  Nevertheless,  a  pure  fire  dwelt 
deep  in  his  soul;  and  only  in  Poetry,  of  one  or  the  other  sort,  could  this 
find  utterance.  The  rest  of  his  nature,  at  the  same  time,  has  a  certain  pro- 
saic rigor;  so  that  not  without  strenuous  and  complex  endeavors,  long  per- 
sisted in,  could  its  poetic  quality  evolve  itself.  Quite  pure,  and  as  the  all- 
sovereign  element,  it  perhaps  never  did  evolve  itself;  and  among  such 
complex  endeavors,  a  small  accident  might  influence  large  portions  in  its 
course."— (CarlyUs  Essays,  8vo  edition,  p.  238.)— Ed. 


STYLE   AND   VERSIFICATION.  183 

thoughts  ;  I  found  him  so  modest  and  so  indifferent  as  to  what 
concerned  his  own  success,  so  proud  and  so  animated  in  the 
defence  of  what  appeared  to  him  to  be  truth,  that  I  vowed  to 
him,  from  that  moment,  a  friendship  replete  with  admiration. 
Attacked,  while  yet  young,  by  a  hopeless  disease,  the  suffer- 
ings of  his  last  moments  were  softened  by  the  attention  of  his 
children,  and  of  a  wife  who  deserved  his  affection  by  a  thousand 
endearing  qualities.  Madame  yon  Wolzogeu,  a  friend  worthy 
of  comprehending  him,  asked  him,  a  few  hours  before  his 
death,  how  he  felt  ?  "  Still  more  and  more  easy,"  was  his 
reply  ;  and,  indeed,  had  he  not  reason  to  place  his  trust  in 
that  God  whose  dominion  on  earth  he  had  endeavored  to  pro- 
mote ?  Was  he  not  approaching  the  abode  of  the  just  ?  Is 
he  not  at  this  moment  in  the  society  of  those  who  resemble 
him  ?  and  has  he  not  already  rejoined  the  friends  who  are 
awaiting  us  ? 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OF     STYLE,    AND    OF   VERSIFICATION    IN     THE    GERMAN     LANGUAGE. 

IN  learning  the  prosody  of  a  language,  we  enter  more  inti- 
mately into  the  spirit  of  the  nation  by  which  it  is  spoken,  than 
by  any  other  possible  manner  of  study.  Thence  it  follows  that 
it  is  amusing  to  pronounce  foreign  words  :  we  listen  to  our- 
selves as  if  another  were  speaking  ;  but  nothing  is  so  delicate, 
nothing  so  difficult  to  seize,  as  accent.  We  learn  the  most 
complicated  airs  of  music  a  thousand  times  more  readily  than 
the  pronounciation  of  a  single  syllable.  A  long  succession  of 
years,  or  the  first  impressions  of  childhood,  can  alone  render 
us  capable  of  imitating  this  pronunciation,  which  comprehends 
whatever  is  most  subtle  and  undefinable  in  the  imagination, 
and  in  national  character. 

The  Germanic  dialects  have  for  their  original  a  mother- 
tongue,  of  which  they  all  partake.  This  common  source  re- 


184  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

news  and  multiplies  expressions  in  a  mode  always  conformable 
to  the  genius  of  the  people.  The  nations  of  Latin  origin 
enrich  themselves,  as  ws  may  say,  only  externally ;  they  must 
have  recourse  to  dead  languages,  to  petrified  treasures,  for  the 
extension  >>f  their  empire.  It  is  therefore  natural  that  innova- 
tions in  words  chouli  be  less  pleasing  to  them,  than  to  those 
nations  which  emit  shoots  from  an  ever-living  stock.  But  the 
French  writers  require  an  animation  and  coloring  of  their  style, 
by  the  boldest  measures  that  a  natural  sentiment  can  suggest, 
while  the  Germans,  on  the  contrary,  gain  by  restricting  them- 
selves. Among  them,  reserve  cannot  destroy  originality  ;  they 
run  no  risk  of  losing  it  but  by  the  very  excess  of  abundance. 

The  air  we  breathe  has  much  influence  on  the  sounds  we 
articulate  :  the  diversity  of  soil  and  climate  produces  very 
different  modes  of  pronouncing  the  same  language.  As  we 
approach  the  sea-coast,  we  find  the  words  become  softer;  the 
climate  there  is  more  temperate ;  perhaps  also  the  habitual 
sight  of  this  image  of  infinity  inclines  to  revery,  and  gives  to 
pronunciation  more  of  effeminacy  and  indolence  ;  but  when  we 
ascend  towards  the  mountains,  the  accent  becomes  stronger, 
and  we  might  say  that  the  inhabitants  of  these  elevated  re- 
gions wish  to  make  themselves  heard  by  the  rest  of  the  world, 
from  tho  height  of  their  natural  rostra.  We  find  in  the  Ger- 
man} 2  dialects  the  traces  of  the  different  influences  I  have  now 
had  occasion  to  point  out. 

The  German  is  in  itself  a  language  as  primitive,  and  almost 
as  intricate  in  structure,  as  the  Greek.1  Those  who  have  made 

1  The  subject  of  comparative  philology  is  suggested, — a  subject  that 
especially  reminds  us  of  German  erudition.  "We  can  here  only  refer  to 
those  who  have  devoted  themselves  to  the  study  of  this  noble  branch  of 
learning,  and  thus  guid<»  the  student  to  sources  whence  he  can  obtain  all 
the  information  he  may  desire.  The  leading  article  in  the  New  Englander, 
for  August,  1858  (by  Mr.  Dwight),  contains  a  clearly  written  summary  of 
the  History  of  Modern  Philology,  from  which  we  take  the  following : 

"  Behold,  now,  the  most  important  of  the  different  names  that  we  have 
mentioned,  grouped  in  classes  according  to  their  merit. 

"  1.  Bopp,  Grimm,  Pott,  Diefenbach,  Benary,  Schleicher,  Curtius,  Kuhn, 
Diez,  Mommsen,  and  Aufrecht. 

"  2.  Eichhoif,  Ahrens,  Giese,  Hoefer,  Heyse,  Benfey,  Donaldson. 


STYLE   AND   VERSIFICATION.  135 

researches  into  the  great  families  of  nations,  have  thought  they 
discovered  the  historical  reasons  for  this  resemblance.  It  is 
certainly  true,  that  we  remark  in  the  German  a  grammatical 
affinity  with  the  Greek  ;  it  has  all  its  difficulty,  without  its 
charm  ;  for  the  multitude  of  consonants  of  which  the  words 
are  composed,  render  them  rather  noisy  than  sonorous.  It 

"  3.  Kaltschmidt,  Rapp,  and  Winning. 

"  These  writers  may  also  be  advantageously  divided,  for  the  reader's 
information,  into  different  classes,  according  to  the  subjects  that  they  have 
investigated. 

I.  LANGUAGE. 

"  1st.  The  Indo-European  languages  generally :  Schleicher  (Sprachen 
Europa's) :  Max  Muller  (Survey  of  Languages,  2d  edition). 

"2d.  Specially, 

"  (1.)  The  Graeco-Italic :  Schleicher  (Sprachen,  &c.) ;  Mommsen  (R6- 
mische  Geschichte) ;  E.  Curtius  (Griechische  Gesch.) ;  Aufrecht  and  Kirch- 
hoff  (Umbrische  Sprachdenkrnaler) ;  Diez  (Grammatik  der  Romanischen 
Sprachen) . 

"  (2.)  The  Lettic  :  Schleicher  (Sprachen,  &c). 

"  (3.)  The  Gothic ;  Grimm  (Deutsche  Grammatik  und  Geschichte)  ; 
Schleicher  ;  Diefenbach  (Gothisches  Worterbuch). 

"  (4.)  Sclavonic  :  Schafarik ;  Schleicher ;  Miklosich. 

"  (5.)  Celtic :  Diefenbach  (Celtica) ;  Pictet :  Charles  Meyer ;  Zouss 
(Grammatica  Celtica)  ;  Ebel  (Zeitschrift,  &c.) ;  Prichard  (Celtic  Nations). 

II.  PHONETICS. 

"  Senary  ,  Hoefer ;  Grimm  (Deutsche  Grammatik  und  Geschichte)  ;  Bopp 
(Vergleich.  Gramm.)  ;  Diez  (Grammatik,  &c.). 

III.  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

"  Becker's  various  works  on  Grammar,  &c. ;  Heyse's  System  der  Sprach- 
wissenschaft,  Lersch's  Sprachphilosophie. 

IV.  ETYMOLOGY. 

"  Bopp  (Vergleich.  Gramm.)  ;  Schleicher  (Litanische  Grammatik)  ;  G. 
Curtius  (Griechische  Gramm.)  ;  Diez  (Lexicon  Etymologicum)  ;  Fritsch. 

"  In  Germany,  by  far  the  greatest  attention  has  been  paid,  from  sponta- 
neous impulse,  to  the  claims  of  comparative  philology ;  while  in  Russia, 
the  government  has  as  far  exceeded  all  other  governments  in  its  patronage 
of  this  delightful  study,  and  of  those  who  are  devoted  to  it.  This  is  one 
of  the  chief  legacies  left  by  the  Empress  Catharine,  in  her  own  zealous 
example,  to  her  successors  on  the  throne  ;  and  in  accepting  it,  they  have 
not  forgotten  to  put  it  to  good  usnry.  The  government  publishes,  at  its 
own  expense,  the  grammars,  dictionaries,  and  treatises,  prepared  by  the 
best  scholars,  and  sustains  travellers  at  its  own  expense,  in  making  explor- 
ing tours  for  philosophical  purposes  in  the  East.  Vienna,  however,  is  the 
most  prolific  of  all  single  cities  in  the  world,  in  oriental  publications.  In 


186  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

might  be  said,  that  the  words  themselves  were  more  forcible 
than  the  things  represented  by  them,  and  this  frequently  gives 
a  sort  of  monotonous  energy  to  the  style.  We  should  be  care- 
ful, nevertheless,  not  to  attempt  softening  the  pronunciation  of 
the  German  language  too  much  ;  there  always  results  from  it 
a  certain  affected  gracefulness,  which  is  altogether  disagreea- 
ble :  it  presents  to  our  ears  sounds  essentially  rude,  in  spite  of 
the  gentility  with  which  we  seek  to  invest  them,  and  this  sort 
of  affectation  is  singularly  displeasing. 

J.  J.  Rousseau  has  said,  that  the  southern  languages  were  the 
daughters  of  pleasure,  tfie  northern,  of  necessity.  The  Italian  and 
Spanish  are  modulated  like  an  harmonious  song  ;  the  French 
is  eminently  suited  to  conversation  :  their  parliamentary  de- 
bates, and  the  energy  natural  to  the  people,  have  given  to  the 
English  something  of  expression,  that  supplies  the  want  of 
prosody.  The  German  is  more  philosophical  by  far  than  the 
Italian  ;  more  poetical,  by  reason  of  its  boldness,  than  the 
French  ;  more  favorable  to  the  rhythm  of  verses  than  the 
English  ;  but  it  still  retains  a  certain  stiffness  that  proceeds, 
possibly,  from  its  being  so  sparingly  made  use  of,  either  in 
social  intercourse  or  in  the  public  service. 

Grammatical  simplicity  is  one  of  the  great  advantages  of 
modern  languages.  This  simplicity,  founded  on  logical  prin- 
ciples common  to  all  nations,  renders  them  easy  to  be  under- 
stood :  to  learn  the  Italian  and  English,  a  slight  degree  of 
study  is  sufficient  ;  but  the  German  is  quite  a  science.  The 
period,  in  the  German  language,  encompasses  the  thought  ; 
and  like  the  talons  of  a  bird,  to  grasp  it,  opens  and  closes  on 
it  again.  A  construction  of  phrases,  nearly  similar  to  that 
which  existed  among  the  ancients,  has  been  introduced  into  it 
with  greater  facility  than  into  any  other  European  dialect; 


France,  Prussia,  and  Denmark  also,  much  more  zeal  is  shown  in  this  cap  • 
tivuting  class  of  studies  than  in  either  England  or  America.  The  Sanskrit 
has  been,  indeed,  as  long  taught  in  England  as  in  Germany,  and  even 
longer;  but  not  for  classical  arid  philological  purposes;  for  commercial 
reasons  rather,  under  the  patronage  of  the  East  India  Company,  at  the 
College  of  Haileybury."—  (Neit  Englander,  August,  1858,  pp.  502-3.)— Ed, 


STYLE   AND   VERSIFICATION-.  187 

but  inversions  are  rarely  suitable  to  modern  languages.  The 
striking  terminations  of  the  Greek  and  Latin,  clearly  pointed 
out  the  words  which  ought  to  be  joined  together  even  when 
they  were  separated  :  the  signs  of  the  German  declensions  are 
so  indistinct,  that  we  have  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  to  discover, 
under  colors  so  uniform,  the  words  which  depends  on  each 
other. 

When  foreigners  complain  of  the  labor  which  is  required  to 
study  the  German  language,  they  are  told  that  it  is  very  easy 
to  write  in  that  language  with  the  simplicity  of  French  gram- 
mar, while  it  is  impossible  in  French  to  adopt  the  German 
period,  and  that  therefore  this  should  be  considered  as  afford- 
ing additional  means  of  facility  ;  but  these  means  mislead  many 
writers,  who  are  induced  to  make  too  frequent  use  of  them. 
The  German  is,  perhaps,  the  only  language,  in  which  verse  is 
more  easy  to  be  understood .  than  prose  ;  the  poetic  phrase, 
being  necessarily  interrupted  even  by  the  measure  of  the  verse, 
cannot  be  lengthened  beyond  it. 

Without  doubt,  there  are  more  shades,  more  connecting 
ties,  between  the  thoughts  in  those  periods,  which  in  them- 
selves form  a  whole,  and  assemble  in  the  same  point  of  view, 
all  the  various  relations  belonging  to  the  same  subject  ;  but  if 
we  considered  only  the  natural  concatenation  of  different  ideas, 
we  should  end  by  wishing  to  comprise  them  all  in  a  single 
phrase.  It  is  necessary  for  the  human  mind  to  divide,  in  order 
to  comprehend,  and  we  run  a  risk  of  mistaking  gleams  of  light 
for  truths,  when  even  the  forms  of  a  language  are  obscured. 

The  art  of  translation  is  carried  further  in  the  German  lan- 
guage than  in  any  other  European  dialect.1  Voss  has  trans- 


1  "  Every  literature  of  the  world  has  been  cultivated  by  the  Germans ; 
and  to  every  literature  they  have  studied  to  give  due  honor.  Shakspeare 
and  Homer,  no  doubt,  occupy  alone  the  loftiest  station  in  the  poetical 
Olympus ;  but  there  is  space  for  all  true  Singers,  out  of  every  age  and 
clime.  Ferdusi  and  the  primeval  Mythologists  of  Hindostan,  live  in 
brotherly  union  with  the  Troubadours  and  ancient  Story-tellers  of  the 
West.  The  wayward  mystic  gloom  of  Calderon,  the  lurid  fire  of  Dante, 
the  auroral  light  of  Tasso,  the  clear  icy  glitter  of  Racine,  all  are  acknowl- 
edged and  reverenced  :  nay,  in  the  celestial  fore-court  an  abode  has  been 


188  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S   GEKMANY. 

lated  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors  with  wonderful  directness  ; 
and  W.  Schlegel  those  of  England,  Italy,  and  Spain,  with  a 
truth  of  coloring  which  before  him  was  unexampled.  When 
the  German  is  employed  in  a  translation  from  the  English,  it 
loses  nothing  of  its  natural  character,  because  both  those  lan- 
guages are  of  Germanic  origin  ;  but  whatever  merit  may  be 
found  in  Voss's  translation  of  Homer,  it  certainly  makes,  both 
of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  poems,  the  style  of  which  is  Greek, 
though  the  words  are  German.  Our  knowledge  of  antiquity 
gains  by  it ;  but  the  originality,  peculiar  to  the  idiom  of  each 
nation,  is  necessarily  lost  in  proportion.  It  seems  like  a  con- 
tradiction to  accuse  the  German  language  of  having  at  once 
too  much  flexibility  and  too  much  roughness  ;  but  what  is 
reconcilable  in  character  may  also  be  reconcilable  in  lan- 
guages ;  and  we  often  find  that  the  quality  of  roughness  does 
not  exclude  that  of  flexibility  in  the  same  person. 

These  defects  are  less  frequently  discovered  in  verse  than  in 
prose,  and  in  original  compositions  than  in  translations.  I 
think  then  we  may  with  truth  affirm,  that  there  is  at  present 
no  poetry  more  striking  and  more  varied  than  that  of  the 
Germans.1 


appointed  for  the  Gressets  and  Delilles,  that  no  spark  of  inspiration,  no 
tone  of  mental  music,  might  remain  unrecognized.  The  Germans  study 
foreign  nations  in  a  spirit  which  deserves  to  be  oftener  imitated.  It  i9 
their  honest  endeavor  to  understand  each  with  its  own  peculiarities,  in  ita 
own  special  manner  of  existing  ;  not  that  they  may  praise  it,  or  censure  it, 
or  attempt  to  alter  it,  but  simply  that  they  may  see  this  manner  of  existing 
as  the  nation  itself  sees  it,  and  so  participate  in  whatever  worth  or  beauty 
it  has  brought  into  being.  Of  all  literatures,  accordingly,  the  German 
has  the  best  as  well  as  the  most  translations ;  men  like  Goethe,  Schiller, 
Wieland,  Schlegel,  Tieck,  have  not  disdained  this  task.  Of  Shakspeare 
there  are  three  entire  versions  admitted  to  be  good ;  and  we  know  not  how 
many  partial,  or  considered  as  bad.  In  their  criticisms  of  him  we  ourselves 
have  long  ago  admitted,  that  no  such  clear  judgment  or  hearty  apprecia- 
tion of  his  merits  had  ever  been  exhibited  by  any  critic  of  our  own.'' — 
(Carlyle's  Essays,  p.  24.) — Ed. 

1  '•  There  are  poets  in  that  country  who  belong  to  a  nobler  class  than 
most  nations  have  to  show  in  these  days ,  a  class  entirely  unknown  to 
some  nations ;  and,  for  the  last  two  centuries,  rare  in  all.  We  have  no 
hesitation  in  stating,  that  we  see  in  certain  of  the  best  German  poets,  and 
those  too  of  our  own  time,  something  which  associates  them,  remotely  or 


STYLE   AND   VERSIFICATION.  189 

Versification  is  a  peculiar  art,  the  investigation  of  which  is 
inexhaustible  :  those  words,  which  in  the  common  relations  of 
life  serve  only  as  signs  of  thought,  reach  our  souls  through  the 
rhythm  of  harmonious  sounds,  and  afford  us  a  double  enjoy- 


nearly  we  say  not,  but  which  does  associate  them  with  the  Masters  of  Art, 
tLe  Saints  of  Poetry,  long  since  departed,  and,  as  we  thought,  without  suc- 
cessors, from  the  earth ;  but  canonized  in  the  hearts  of  all  generations,  and 
yet  living  to  all  by  the  memory  of  what  they  did  and  were.  Glances  we 
do  seem  to  find  of  that  ethereal  glory,  which  looks  on  us  in  its  full  bright- 
ness from  the  Transfiguration  of  Eafaelle,  from  the  Tempest  of  Shtikspearo ; 
and  in  broken,  but  purest  and  still  heart-piercing  beams,  struggling  through 
the  gloom  of  long  ages,  from  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles  and  the  weather- 
worn sculptures  of  the  Parthenon.  This  is  that  heavenly  spirit,  which, 
best  seen  in  the  aerial  embodiment  of  poetry,  but  spreading  likewise  over 
all  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  an  age,  has  given  us  Surreys,  Sydneys,  Ba- 
leighs,  iu  court  and  camp,  Cecils  in  policy,  Hookers  in  divinity,  Bacons  in 
philosophy,  and  Shakspeares  and  Spensera  in  song.  All  hearts  that  know 
this,  know  it  to  be  the  highest ;  and  that,  in  poetry  or  elsewhere,  it  alone 
is  true  and  imperishable.  In  affirming  that  any  vestige,  however  feeble, 
of  this  divine  spirit,  is  discernible  in  German  poetry,  we  are  aware  that  we 
place  it  above  the  existing  poetry  of  any  other  nation. 

"  To  prove  this  bold  assertion,  logical  arguments  were  at  all  times  un- 
availing ;  and,  in  the  present  circumstances  of  the  case,  more  than  usually 
BO.  Neither  will  any  extract  or  specimen  help  us ;  for  it  is  not  in  parts, 
but  in  whole  poems,  that  the  spirit  of  a  true  poet  is  to  be  seen.  We  can, 
therefore,  only  name  such  men  as  Tieck,  Richter,  Herder,  Schiller,  and, 
above  all,  Goethe ;  and  ask  any  reader  who  has  learned  to  admire  wisely 
our  own  literature  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  age,  to  peruse  these  writers  also ; 
to  study  them  till  he  feels  that  he  has  understood  them,  and  justly  esti- 
mated both  then-  light  and  darkness ;  and  then  to  pronounce  whether  it  is 
not,  in  some  degree,  as  we  have  said.  Are  there  not  tones  here  of  that  old 
melody  ?  Are  there  not  glimpses  of  that  serene  soul,  that  calm  harmonious 
strength,  that  smiling  earnestness,  that  Love  and  Faith  and  Humanity 
of  nature  ?  Do  these  foreign  contemporaries  of  ours  still  exhibit,  in  their 
characters  as  men,  something  of  that  sterling  nobleness,  that  union  of 
majesty  with  meekness,  which  we  must  ever  venerate  in  those  our  spirit- 
ual fathers?  And  do  their  works,  in  the  new  form  of  this  century,  show 
forth  that  old  nobleness,  not  consistent  only  with  the  science,  the  preci- 
sion, the  skepticism  of  these  days,  but  wedded  to  them,  incorporated  with 
them ,  and  shining  through  them  like  their  life  and  soul  ?  Might  it  in  truth 
almost  seem  to  us,  in  reading  the  prose  of  Goethe,  as  if  we  were  reading 
that  of  Milton ;  and  of  Milton  writing  with  the  culture  of  this  time ;  com- 
bining French  clearness  with  old  English  depth?  And  of  his  poetry  may 
it  indeed  be  said  that  it  is  poetry  and  yet  the  poetry  of  our  own  genera- 
tion ;  an  ideal  world,  and  yet  the  world  we  even  now  live  in?— These  ques- 
tions we  must  leave  candid  and  studious  inquirers  to  answer  for  them- 


190  MADAME   DE   STAEL58   GERMAMT. 

ment,  which  arises  from  the  union  of  sensation  and  reflection  ; 
but,  if  all  languages  are  equally  proper  to  express  what  we 
think,  they  are  not  all  equally  so  to  impart  what  we  feel  ;  and 
the  effects  of  poetry  depend  still  more  on  the  melody  of  words 
than  on  the  ideas  which  they  serve  to  express. 

The  German  is  the  only  modern  language  which  has  long 
and  short  syllables,  like  the  Greek  and  Latin  ;  all  the  other 
European  dialects  are  either  more  or  less  accented  ;  but  verse 
cannot  be  measured,  in  the  manner  of  the  ancients,  according 
to  the  length  of  the  syllables  :  accent  gives  unity  to  phrases, 
as  well  as  to  words.  It  is  connected  with  the  signification  of 
what  is  said  :  we  lay  a  stress  on  that  which  is  to  determine  the 
sense  ;  and  pronunciation,  in  thus  marking  particular  words, 
refers  them  all  to  the  principal  idea.  It  is  not  thus  with  the 
musical  duration  of  sound  in  language  ;  this  is  much  more 
favorable  to  poetry  than  accent,  because  it  has  no  positive 
object,  and  affords  only  a  high  but  indefinite  pleasure,  like  all 
other  enjoyments  that  tend  to  no  determinate  purpose.  Among 
the  ancients,  syllables  were  scanned  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  vowels,  and  the  connection  of  their  different  sounds  :  har- 
mony was  the  only  criterion.  In  Germany,  all  the  accessory 
words  are  short,  and  it  is  grammatical  dignity  alone,  that  is  to 
say,  the  importance  of  the  radical  syllable,  that  determines  its 
quantity  ;  there  is  less  of  charm  in  this  species  of  prosody,  than 
in  that  of  the  ancients,  because  it  depends  more  on  abstract 
combinations  than  on  involuntary  sensation  ;  it  is  nevertheless 
a  great  advantage  to  any  language,  to  have  in  its  prosody,  that 
which  may  be  substituted  for  rhyme. 

Rhyme  is  a  modern  discovery  ;  it  is  connected  with  all  our 
fine  arts,  and  we  should  deprive  ourselves  of  great  effects  by 
renouncing  the  use  of  it.  It  is  the  image  of  hope  and  of  mem- 
ory. One  sound  makes  us  desire  another,  corresponding  to  it ; 
and  when  the  second  is  heard,  it  recalls  that  which  has  just 

selves ;  premising  only,  that  the  secret  is  not  to  be  found  on  the  surface ; 
that  the  first  reply  is  likely  to  be  in  the  negative,  but  with  inquirers  of 
this  sort,  by  no  means  likely  to  be  the  final  one." — (Carlyle's  Etsays,  8vo 
edition,  p.  28.)—  Ed. 


STYLE   AND   VERSIFICATION.  191 

escaped  us.  This  agreeable  regularity  must,  nevertheless,  be 
prejudical  to  nature  in  the  dramatic  art,  as  well  as  to  boldn.vss 
in  the  epic.  We  can  scarcely  do  without  rhyme,  in  idioms, 
where  the  prosody  is  but  little  marked  :  and  yet  the  restraints 
of  construction  may,  in  certain  languages,  be  such,  that  a  bol  1 
and  contemplative  poet  may  find  it  needful  to  make  us  soasibio 
of  the  harmony  of  versification  without  the  subjection  of  rhyme. 
Klopstock  has  banished  Alexandrines  from  German  poetry  ;  he 
has  substituted  in  their  stead,  hexameters,  and  iambic  verses, 
without  rhyme,  according  to  the  practice  of  the  English,  which 
give  much  greater  liberty  to  the  imagination.  Alexandrine 
verses  are  very  ill  adapted  to  German  poetry  ;  we  may  con- 
vince ourselves  of  this  by  the  poems  of  the  great  Haller  him- 
self, whatever  merit  they  may  in  other  respects  possess  ;  a  lan- 
guage, the  pronunciation  of  which  is  so  sonorous,  deafens  us 
by  the  repetition  and  uniformity  of  the  hemistichs.  Besides, 
this  kind  of  versification  calls  for  sentence  and  antitheses  ;  and 
the  German  genius  is  too  scrupulous  and  too  sincere  to  adopt 
those  antitheses,  which  never  present  ideas  or  images  in  their 
perfect  truth,  or  in  their  most  exact  shades  of  distinction.  The 
harmony  of  hexameters,  and  especially  of  unrhymed  iambic 
verses,  is  only  natural  harmony  inspired  by  sentiment ;  it  is 
a  marked  and  distinct  declamation,  while  the  Alexandrine 
verse  imposes  a  certain  species  and  turn  of  expression,  from 
which  it  is  difficult  to  get  free.  The  composition  of  this  kind 
of  verse  is  even  entirely  independent  of  poetic  genius  ;  we  may 
possess  it  without  having  that  genius  ;  and  on  the  contrary, 
it  is  possible  to  be  a  great  poet,  and  yet  feel  incapable  of  con- 
forming to  the  restrictions  which  this  kind  of  verse  imposes. 

Our  best  lyrical  poets,  in  France,  are,  perhaps,  our  great 
prose  writers, — Bossuet,  Pascal,  Fenelon,  Buffon,  Jean-Jacques 
[Rousseau] ,  etc.  The  despotism  of  Alexandrines  often  prevents 
us  from  putting  into  verse  that  which,  notwithstanding,  would 
be  true  poetry  ;  while  in  foreign  nations,  versification  being 
much  more  easy  and  natural,  every  poetical  thought  inspires 
verse,  and,  in  general,  prose  is  left  to  reason  and  argument. 
We  might  defy  Racine  himself  to  translate  into  French  verse 


192  MADAME   DE   STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

Pindar,  Petrarch,  or  Klopstock,  without  giving  a  character  un- 
natural to  them.  These  poets  have  a  kind  of  boldness  which 
is  seldom  to  be  found,  except  in  languages  which  are  capable 
of  uniting  all  the  charms  of  versification  with  perfect  originali- 
ty ;  and  this,  in  the  French,  can  only  be  done  in  prose. 

One  of  the  greatest  advantages  of  the  Germanic  dialects  in 
poetry,  is  the  variety  and  beauty  of  their  epithets.  The  Ger- 
man, in  this  respect  also,  may  be  compared  to  the  Greek  ;  in 
a  single  word,  we  perceive  many  images,  as  in  the  principal 
note  of  a  concord  we  have  all  the  sounds  of  which  it  is  com- 
posed, or  as  certain  colors  which  revive  in  us  the  perception 
of  those  with  which  they  are  immediately  connected.  In 
French,  we  say  only  what  we  mean  to  say  ;  and  we  do  not  see, 
wandering  around  our  words,  those  clouds  of  countless  forms 
which  surround  the  poetry  of  the  northern  languages,  and 
awaken  a  crowd  of  recollections.  To  the  liberty  of  forming 
one  epithet  out  of  two  or  three,  is  added  that  of  animating 
the  language  by  making  nouns  of  verbs  ;  living,  willing,  feel- 
ing,  are  all  expressions  less  abstract  than  life,  will,  and  senti- 
ment ;  and  whatever  changes  thought  into  action  gives  more 
animation  to  the  style.  The  facility  of  reversing  the  construc- 
tion of  a  phrase,  according  to  inclination,  is  also  very  favorable 
to  poetry,  and  gives  the  power  of  exciting,  by  the  varied  means 
of  versification,  impressions  analogous  to  those  of  painting  and 
music.  In  short,  the  general  spirit  of  the  Teutonic  dialects  is 
independence.  The  first  object  of  their  writers  is  to  transmit 
what  they  feel  ;  they  would  willingly  say  to  poetry  what  He- 
loise  said  to  her  lover  :  "  If  there  be  a  word  more  true,  more 
tender,  and  more  strongly  expressive  of  what  I  feel,  that  word 
I  would  choose."  In  France  the  recollection  of  what  is  suita- 
ble and  becoming  in  society,  pursues  genius  even  to  its  most 
secret  motions  :  and  the  dread  of  ridicule  is  like  the  sword  of 
Damocles,  which  no  banquet  of  the  imagination  can  ever  make 
us  forget. 

In  the  arts,  we  often  speak  of  the  merit  of  conquering  a  dif- 
ficulty j  it  is  said,  nevertheless,  with  reason,  that  either  the  dif- 
ficulty is  not  felt,  and  then  it  is  no  difficulty,  or  it  is  felt,  and 


POETRY.  193 

is  then  not  surmounted.  •  The  fetters  imposed  on  the  mind  cer- 
tainly give  a  spring  to  its  powers  of  action  ;  but  there  is  often 
in  true  genius  a  sort  of  awkwardness,  similar  in  some  respects 
to  the  credulity  of  sincere  and  noble  souls ;  and  we  should  do 
wrong  in  endeavoring  to  subject  it  to  arbitrary  restrictions, 
for  it  would  free  itself  from  them  with  much  greater  difficulty 
than  talents  of  a  second-rate  order. 


CHAPTER  X. 

OF   POETRT. 

THAT  which  is  truly  divine  in  the  heart  of  man  cannot  be 
defined ;  if  there  be  words  for  some  of  its  features,  there  are 
none  to  express  the  whole  together,  particularly  the  mystery 
of  true  beauty  in  all  its  varieties.  It  is  easy  to  say  what  poe- 
try is  not ;  but  if  we  would  comprehend  what  it  is,  we  must 
call  to  our  assistance  the  impressions  excited  by  a  fine  country, 
harmonious  music,  the  sight  of  a  favored  object,  and,  above  all, 
a  religious  sentiment  which  makes  us  feel  within  ourselves  the 
presence  of  the  Deity.  Poetry  is  the  natural  language  of  all 
worship.  The  Bible  is  full  of  poetry ;  Homer  is  full  of  reli- 
gion :  not  that  there  are  fictions  in  the  Bible,  or  doctrines  in 
Homer;  but  enthusiasm  concentrates  different  sentiments  in 
the  same  focus ;  enthusiasm  is  the  incense  offered  by  earth  to 
heaven  ;  it  unites  the  one  to  the  other. 

The  gift  of  revealing  by  speech  the  internal  feelings  of  the 
heart  is  very  rare ;  there  is,  however,  a  poetical  spirit  in  all 
beings  who  are  capable  of  strong  and  lively  affections :  expres- 
sion is  wanting  to  those  who  have  not  exerted  themselves  to 
find  it.  It  may  be  said,  that  the  poet  only  disengages  the 
sentiment  that  was  imprisoned  in  his  soul.  Poetic  genius  is 
an  internal  disposition,  of  the  same  nature  with  that  which 
renders  us  capable  of  a  generous  sacrifice.  The  composition 

VOL.  I.— 9 


19-i  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

of  a  fine  ode  is  a  heroic  trance.  If  genius  were  not  versatile, 
it  would  as  often  inspire  fine  actions  as  affecting  expressions  ; 
for  they  both  equally  spring  from  a  consciousness  of  the  beauti- 
ful which  is  felt  within  us. 

A  man  of  superior  talent  said  that  "prose  was  factitious, 
and  poetry  natural ;"  and,  in  fact,  nations  little  civilized  begin 
always  with  poetry ;  and  whenever  a  strong  passion  agitates 
the  soul,  the  most  common  of  men  make  use,  unknown  to 
themselves,  of  images  and  metaphors;  they  call  exterior  na- 
ture to  their  assistance,  to  express  what  is  inexpressible  within 
themselves.  Common  people  are  much  nearer  being  poets, 
than  men  accustomed  to  good  society ;  the  rules  of  politeness, 
and  delicate  raillery,  are  fit  only  to  impose  limits,  they  cannot 
impart  inspiration. 

In  this  world  there  is  an  endless  contest  between  poetry 
and  prose  ;  but  pleasantry  must  always  place  itself  on  the  side 
of  prose,  for  to  jest  is  to  descend.  The  spirit  of  society  is, 
however,  very  favorable  to  that  gay  and  graceful  poetry  of 
which  Ariosto,  La  Fontaine,  and  Voltaire  are  the  most  bril- 
liant models.  Dramatic  poetry  is  admirable  in  our  first  writers ; 
descriptive,  and,  above  all,  didatic  poetry  have  been  earned  by 
the  French  to  a  very  high  degree  of  perfection ;  but  it  does 
not  appear  that  they  have  hitherto  been  called  on  to  distin- 
guish themselves  in  lyric  or  epic  poetry,  such  as  it  was  formerly 
conceived  by  the  ancients,  and  at  present  by  foreigners. 

Lyric  poetry  is  expressed  in  the  name  of  the  author  himself; 
he  no  longer  assumes  a  character,  but  experiences  in  his  own 
person,  the  various  emotions  he  describes.  J.  B.  Rousseau,  in 
his  devotional  odes,  and  Racine,  in  his  Athalie,  have  shown 
themselves  lyric  poets.  They  were  imbued  with  a  love  of 
psalmody,  and  penetrated  with  a  lively  faith.  Nevertheless, 
the  difficulties  of  the  language  and  of  French  versification  are 
frequently  obstacles  to  this  delirium  of  enthusiasm.  We  may 
quote  admirable  strophes  in  some  of  our  odes,  but  have  we 
any  complete  ode  in  which  the  Muse  has  not  abandoned  the 
poet  ?  Fine  verses  are  not  always  poetry ;  inspiration  in  the 
arts  is  an  inexhaustible  source,  which  vivifies  the  whole,  from 


POETRY.  195 

the  first  word  to  the  last.  Love,  country,  faith,  all  are  divini- 
ties in  an  ode.  It  is  the  apotheosis  of  sentiment.  In  order  to 
conceive  the  true  grandeur  of  lyric  poetry,  we  must  wander  in 
thought  into  the  ethereal  regions,  forget  the  tumult  of  earth  in 
listening  to  celestial  harmony,  and  consider  the  whole  universe 
as  a  symbol  of  the  emotions  of  the  soul. 

The  enigma  of  human  destiny  is  nothing  to  the  generality 
of  men ;  the  poet  has  it  always  present  to  his  imagination. 
The  idea  of  death,  which  depresses  vulgar  minds,  gives  to 
genius  additional  boldness ;  and  the  mixture  of  the  beauties  of 
nature  with  the  terrors  of  dissolution,  excites  an  indescribable 
delirium  of  happiness  and  terror,  without  which  we  can  neither 
comprehend  nor  describe  the  spectacle  of  this  world.  Lyric 
poetry  relates  nothing,  is  not  confined  to  the  succession  of 
time,  or  the  limits  of  space ;  it  spreads  its  wings  over  countries 
and  over  ages ;  it  gives  duration  to  the  sublime  moment  in 
which  man  rises  superior  to  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  life. 
Amid  the  wonders  of  the  world,  he  feels  himself  a  being  at 
once  creator  and  created ;  who  must  die,  and  yet  cannot  cease 
to  be,  and  whose  heart,  trembling,  yet  at  the  same  time  pow- 
erful, takes  pride  in  itself,  yet  prostrates  itself  before  God. 

The  Germans,  at  once  uniting  the  powers  of  imagination 
and  reflection  (qualities  which  very  rarely  meet),  are  more 
capable  of  lyric  poetry  than  most  other  nations.  The  mod- 
erns cannot  give  up  a  certain  profundity  of  ideas,  to  which 
they  have  been  habituated  by  a  religion  completely  spiritual ; 
and  yet,  nevertheless,  if  this  profundity  were  not  invested  with 
images,  it  would  not  be  poetry :  nature  then  must  be  aggran- 
dized in  the  eyes  of  men,  before  they  can  employ  it  as  the 
emblem  of  their  thoughts.  Groves,  flowers,  and  rivers  were 
sufficient  for  the  poets  of  paganism ;  but  the  solitude  of  for- 
ests, the  boundless  ocean,  the  starry  firmament,  can  scarcely 
express  the  eternal  and  the  infinite,  which  pervade  and  fill  the 
eoul  of  Christians. 

The  Germans  possess  no  epic  poem  any  more  than  ourselves : 
this  admirable  species  of  composition  does  not  appear  to  be 
granted  to  the  moderns,  and  perhaps  the  Iliad  alone  completely 


190  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

answers  our  ideas  of  it.  To  form  an  epic  poem,  a  particular 
combination  of  circumstances,  such  as  occurred  only  among 
the  Greeks,  is  requisite,  together  with  the  imagination  dis- 
played in  heroic  times,  and  the  perfection  of  language  peculiar 
to  more  civilized  periods.  In  the  middle  ages,  imagination 
was  strong,  but  the  language  imperfect ;  in  our  days,  language 
is  pure,  but  the  imagination  defective.  The  Germans  have 
much  boldness  in  their  ideas  and  style,  but  little  invention  in 
the  plan  of  their  subject :  their  essays  in  the  epic  almost 
always  resemble  the  character  of  lyric  poetry ;  those  of  the 
French  bear  a  stronger  affinity  to  the  dramatic,  and  we  dis- 
cover in  them  more  of  interest  than  of  grandeur.  When  the 
object  is  to  please  on  the  stage,  the  art  of  circumscribing  one's 
self  within  a  given  space,  of  guessing  at  the  taste  of  spectators, 
and  bending  to  it  with  address,  forms  a  part  of  the  success ; 
but  in  the  composition  of  an  epic  poem,  nothing  must  depend 
on  external  and  transient  circumstances.  It  exacts  absolute 
beauties — beauties  which  may  strike  the  solitary  reader,  even 
when  his  sentiments  are  most  natural,  and  his  imagination  most 
emboldened.  He  who  hazards  too  much  in  an  epic  poem  would 
possibly  incur  severe  censure  from  the  good  taste  of  the  French ; 
but  he  who  hazards  nothing  would  not  be  the  less  condemned. 
It  must  be  acknowledged,  that  in  improving  the  taste  and 
language  of  his  country,  Boileau  has  given  to  French  genius 
a  disposition  very  unfavorable  to  poetic  composition.  He  has 
spoken  only  of  that  which  ought  to  be  avoided,  he  has  dwelt 
only  on  precepts  of  reason  and  wisdom,  which  have  introduced 
into  literature  a  sort  of  pedantry,  very  prejudicial  to  the  sub- 
lime energy  of  the  arts.  In  French,  we  have  masterpieces  of 
versification ;  but  how  can  we  call  mere  versification  poetry ! 
To  render  into  verse  what  should  have  remained  in  prose,  to 
express,  in  lines  of  ten  syllables,  like  Pope,  the  minutest  details 
of  a  game  at  cards :  or,  as  in  some  poems  which  have  lately 
appeared  among  us,  draughts,  chess,  and  chemistry,  is  a  trick 
of  legerdemain  in  words :  it  is  composing  with  words  what  we 
call  a  poem,  in  the  same  manner  as,  with  notes  of  music,  we 
compose  a  sonata. 


POETRY.  197 

A  great  knowledge  of  the  poetic  art  is,  however,  necessary 
to  enable  an  author  thus  admirably  to  describe  objects  which 
yield  so  little  scope  to  the  imagination,  and  we  have  reason  to 
admire  some  detached  pieces  in  those  galleries  of  pictures ; 
but  the  intervals  by  which  they  are  separated  are  necessarily 
prosaic,  like  that  which  passes  in  the  mind  of  the  writer.  He 
sa}s  to  himself,  "I  will  make  verses  on  this  subject,  then  on 
that,  and  afterwards  on  this  also ;"  and,  without  perceiving  it, 
he  intrusts  us  with  a  knowledge  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
pursues  his  work.  The  true  poet,  it  may  be  said,  conceives 
his  whole  poem  at  once  in  his  soul,  and,  were  it  not  for  the 
difficulties  of  language,  would  pour  forth  his  extemporaneous 
effusions,  the  sacred  hymns  of  genius,  as  the  sibyls  and  proph- 
ets did  in  ancient  times.  He  is  agitated  by  his  conceptions  as 
by  a  real  event  of  his  life ;  a  new  world  is  opened  to  him ;  the 
sublime  image  of  every  various  situation  and  character,  of 
every  beauty  in  nature,  strikes  his  eye ;  and  his  heart  pants 
for  that  celestial  happiness,  the  idea  of  which,  like  lightning, 
gives  a  momentary  splendor  to  the  obscurity  of  his  fate.  Po- 
etry is  a  momentary  possession  of  all  our  soul  desires ;  genius 
makes  the  boundaries  of  existence  disappear,  and  transforms 
into  brilliant  images  the  uncertain  hope  of  mortals. 

It  would  be  easier  to  describe  the  symptoms  of  genius  than 
to  give  precepts  for  the  attainment  of  it.  Genius,  like  love,  is 
felt  by  the  strong  emotions  with  which  it  penetrates  him  who 
is  endowed  with  it;  but  if  we  dared  to  advise  where  nature 
should  be  the  only  guide,  it  is  not  merely  literary  counsel  that 
we  should  give.  We  should  speak  of  poets,  as  to  citizens  and 
heroes;  we  should  say  to  them,  Be  virtuous,  be  faithful,  be 
free ;  respect  what  is  dear  to  you,  seek  immortality  in  love, 
and  the  Deity  in  nature  ;  in  short,  sanctify  your  soul  as  a  tem- 
ple, and  the  angel  of  noble  thoughts  will  not  disdain  to  appear 
in  it 


198  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XL 

OF    CLASSIC    AND    ROMANTIC    POETRY. 

THE  word  romantic  has  been  lately  introduced  in  Germany 
to  designate  that  kind  of  poetry  which  is  derived  from  the  songs 
of  the  Troubadours ;  that  which  owes  its  birth  to  the  union  of 
chivalry  and  Christianity.  If  we  do  not  admit  that  the  empire 
of  literature  has  been  divided  between  paganism  and  Christian- 
ity, the  North  and  the  South,  antiquity  and  the  middle  ages, 
chivalry  and  the  institutions  of  Greece  and  Rome,  we  shall 
never  succeed  in  forming  a  philosophical  judgment  of  ancient 
and  of  modern  taste. 

We  sometimes  consider  the  word  classic  as  synonymous  with 
perfection.  I  use  it  at  present  in  a  different  acceptation,  con- 
sidering classic  poetry  as  that  of  the  ancients,  and  romantic, 
as  that  which  is  generally  connected  with  the  traditions  of 
chivalry.  This  division  is  equally  suitable  to  the  two  eras  of 
the  world, — that  which  preceded,  and  that  which  followed  the 
establishment  of  Christianity. 

In  various  German  works,  ancient  poetry  has  also  been  com- 
pared to  sculpture,  and  romantic  to  painting ;  in  short,  the 
progress  of  the  human  mind  has  been  characterized  in  every 
manner,  passing  from  material  religions  to  those  which  are 
spiritual,  from  nature  to  the  Deity. 

The  French  nation,  certainly  the  most  cultivated  of  all  that 
are  derived  from  Latin  origin,  inclines  towards  classic  poetry 
imitated  from  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  The  English,  the  most 
illustrious  of  the  Germanic  nations,  is  more  attached  to  that 
which  owes  its  birth  to  chivalry  and  romance ;  and  it  prides 
itself  on  the  admirable  compositions  of  this  sort  which  it  pos- 
sesses. I  will  not,  in  this  place,  examine  which  of  these  two 
kinds  of  poetry  deserves  the  preference ;  it  is  sufficient  to 


CLASSIC    AND   BOM  ANTIC    POETKY.  199 

show,  that  the  diversities  of  taste  on  this  subject  do  not  merely 
spring  from  accidental  causes,  but  are  derived  also  from  the 
primitive  sources  of  imagination  and  thought. 

There  is  a  kind  of  simplicity  both  in  the  epic  poems  and 
tragedies  of  the  ancients ;  because  at  that  time  men  were  com- 
pletely the  children  of  nature,  and  believed  themselves  con- 
trolled by  fate,  as  absolutely  as  nature  herself  is  controlled  by 
necessity.  Man,  reflecting  but  little,  always  bore  the  action  of 
his  soul  without ;  even  conscience  was  represented  by  external 
objects,  and  the  torch  of  the  Furies  shook  the  horrors  of  re- 
morse over  the  head  of  the  guilty.  In  ancient  times,  men  at- 
tended to  events  alone,  but  among  the  moderns,  character  is 
of  greater  importance ;  and  that  uneasy  reflection,  which,  like 
the  vulture  of  Prometheus,  often  internally  devours  us,  would 
have  been  folly  amid  circumstances  and  relations  so  clear 
and  decided,  as  they  existed  in  the  civil  and  social  state  of  the 
ancients. 

When  the  art  of  sculpture  began  in  Greece,  single  statues 
alone  were  formed ;  groups  were  composed  at  a  later  period. 
It  might  be  said  with  equal  truth,  that  there  were  no  groups 
in  any  art :  objects  were  represented  in  succession,  as  in  bas- 
reliefs,  without  combination,  without  complication  of  any  kind. 
Man  personified  nature ;  nymphs  inhabited  the  waters,  hama- 
dryads the  forests;  but  nature,  in  turn,  possessed  herself  of 
man ;  and,  it  might  be  said,  he  resembled  the  torrent,  the* 
thunderbolt,  tho  volcano,  so  wholly  did  he  act  from  involun- 
tary impulse,  and  so  insufficient  was  reflection  in  any  respect, 
to  alter  the  motives  or  the  consequences  of  his  actions.  The 
ancients,  thus  to  speak,  possessed  a  corporeal  soul,  and  its 
emotions  were  all  strong,  decided,  and  consistent;  it  is  not 
the  same  with  the  human  heart  as  developed  by  Christianity : 
the  moderns  have  derived  from  Christian  repentance  a  constant 
habit  of  self-reflection. 

But  in  order  to  manifest  this  kind  of  internal  existence,  a 
great  variety  of  outward  facts  and  circumstances  must  display, 
under  every  form,  the  innumerable  shades  and  gradations  of 
that  which  is  passing  in  the  soul.  If  in  our  days  the  fine  arts 


200  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GEKMANT. 

•were  confined  to  the  simplicity  of  the  ancients,  we  should  nev- 
er attain  that  primitive  strength  which  distinguishes  them, 
and  we  should  lose  those  intimate  and  multiplied  emotions  of 
which  our  souls  are  susceptible.  Simplicity  in  the  arts  would, 
among  the  moderns,  easily  degenerate  into  coldness  and  ab- 
straction, while  that  of  the  ancients  was  full  of  life  and  anima- 
tion. Honor  and  love,  valor  and  pity,  were  the  sentiments 
which  distinguished  the  Christianity  of  chivalrous  ages ;  and 
those  dispositions  of  the  soul  could  only  be  displayed  by  dan- 
gers, exploits,  love,  misfortunes — that  romantic  interest,  in 
short,  by  which  pictures  are  incessantly  varied.  The  sources 
from  which  art  derives  its  effect  are  then  very  different  in  clas- 
sic poetry  and  in  that  of  romance ;  in  one  it  is  fate  which 
reigns,  in  the  other  it  is  Providence.  Fate  counts  the  senti- 
ments of  men  as  nothing ;  but  Providence  judges  of  actions 
according  to  those  sentiments.  Poetry  must  necessarily  create 
a  world  of  a  very  different  nature,  when  its  object  is  to  paint 
the  work  of  destiny,  which  is  both  blind  and  deaf,  maintaining 
an  endless  contest  with  mankind ;  and  when  it  attempts  to 
describe  that  intelligent  order,  over  which  the  Supreme  Being 
continually  presides, — that  Being  whom  our  hearts  supplicate, 
and  who  mercifully  answers  their  petitions ! 

The  poetry  of  the  pagan  world  was  necessarily  as  simple 
and  well  defined  as  the  objects  of  nature ;  while  that  of  Chris- 
tianity requires  the  various  colors  of  the  rainbow  to  preserve 
it  from  being  lost  in  the  clouds.  The  poetry  of  the  ancients 
is  more  pure  as  an  art ;  that  of  the  moderns  more  readily  calls 
forth  our  tears.  But  our  present  object  is  not  so  much  to  de- 
cide between  classic  and  romantic  poetry,  properly  so  called, 
as  between  the  imitation  of  the  one  and  the  inspiration  of  the 
other.  The  literature  of  the  ancients  is,  among  the  moderns, 
a  transplanted  literature ;  that  of  chivalry  and  romance  is  in- 
digenous, and  flourishes  under  the  influence  of  our  religion 
and  our  institutions.  Writers,  who  are  imitators  of  the  an- 
cients, have  subjected  themselves  to  the  rules  of  strict  taste 
alone ;  for,  not  being  able  to  consult  either  their  own  nature 
or  their  own  recollections,  it  is  necessary  for  them  to  conform 


CLASSIC   AXD   ROMANTIC    POETRY.  201 

to  those  laws  by  which  the  chefs-d'oeuvre  of  the  ancients  may 
be  adapted  to  our  taste ;  though  the  circumstances  both  polit- 
ical and  religious,  which  gave  birth  to  these  chefs-d'oeuvre 
are  all  entirely  changed.  But  the  poetry  written  in  imitation 
of  the  ancients,  however  perfect  in  its  kind,  is  seldom  popular, 
because,  in  our  days,  it  has  no  connection  whatever  with  our 
national  feelings.1 

i  "  A  few  words  on  this  much-talked  of  school  may  not  be  unacceptable. 
Like  its  offspring,  VEcole  Romantique  in  France,  it  had  a  critical  purpose 
which  was  good,  and  a  retrograde  purpose  which  was  bad.  Both  were  in- 
surgent against  narrow  critical  canons,  both  proclaimed  the  superiority  of 
Mediaeval  Art ;  both  sought,  in  Catholicism  and  in  national  legends,  mean- 
ings profounder  than  those  current  in  the  literature  of  the  day.  In  other 
respects  these  schools  greatly  differed.  The  Schlegels,  Tieck,  Novalis,  and 
Werner,  had  no  enemy  to  combat  in  the  shape  of  a  severe  national  taste, 
such  as  opposed  the  tentatives  of  Victor  Hugo,  Dumas,  and  Alfred  de 
Vigny.  On  the  contrary,  they  were  supported  by  a  large  body  of  the  na- 
tion, for  their  theories  only  carried  further  certain  tendencies  which  had 
become  general.  Thus  in  as  far  as  these  theories  were  critical,  they  were 
little  more  than  jubilates  over  the  victorious  campaigns  won  by  Lessing, 
Herder,  Goethe,  and  Schiller.  The  Schlegels  stood  upon  the  battle-field, 
now  silent,  and  sang  a  hymn  of  victory  over  the  bodies  of  the  slain.  Fred- 
erick Schlegel,  by  many  degrees  the  most  considerable  critic  of  this  school, 
began  his  career  with  an  Anthology  from  Lessing's  works :  Lessing 's  Geist; 
eine  Blumenlese  seiner  Ansichten  ;  he  ended  it  with  admiration  for  Philip 
the  Second,  and  the  cruel  Alva,  and  with  the  proclamation  that  Calderon 
was  a  greater  poet  than  Shakspeare.  Frederick  Schlegel  thus  represents 
the  whole  romantic  school  from  its  origin  to  its  close. 

"  Fichte,  Schelling,  Schleiermacher,  and  Solger,  are  the  philosophers  of 
this  school ;  from  the  two  former  came  the  once  famous,  now  almost  for- 
gotten, principle  of '  Irony,'  which  Hegel1  not  only  disposed  of  as  a  prin- 
ciple, but  showed  that  the  critics  themselves  made  no  use  of  it.  Indeed, 
the  only  serious  instance  of  its  application  I  remember,  is  the  ingenious 
essay  by  Schleiermacher  on  the  '  Irony  of  Sophocles,'  translated  for  the 
Classical  Museum  by  the  present  Bishop  of  St.  David's.  No  one,  not  even 
Tieck,  attempted  to  exhibit  the  '  irony'  of  Shakspeare,  the  god  of  their 
idolatry.  Among  the  services  rendered  by  Tieck  and  A.  W.  Schlegel, 
the  translation  of  Shakspeare  must  never  be  forgotten,  for  although  that 
translation  is  by  no  means  so  accurate  as  Germans  suppose,  being  often 
miserably  weak,  and  sometimes  grossly  mistaken  in  its  interpretation  ot 
the  meaning,  it  is  nevertheless  a  translation  which,  on  the  whole,  ha» 
perhaps  no  rival  in  literature,  and  has  served  to  make  Shakspeare  as,  fa- 
miliar to  the  Germans  as  to  us.  * 


1  jEsthetik,  i.  pn.  84-90. 


202  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

The  French  being  the  most  classical  of  all  modern  poetry, 
is  of  all  others  least  calculated  to  become  familiar  among  the 
lower  orders  of  the  people.  The  stanzas  of  Tasso  are  sung  by 
the  gondoliers  of  Venice ;  the  Spaniards  and  Portugese,  of  all 

"  In  their  crusade  against  the  French,  in  their  naturalization  of  Shak- 
speare,  and  their  furtherance  of  Herder's  efforts  towards  the  restoration  of 
a  ballad  literature,  and  the  taste  for  Gothic  Architecture,  these  Romanti- 
cists were  with  the  stream.  They  also  flattered  the  national  tendencies 
•when  they  proclaimed  '  mythology  and  poetry,  symbolical  legend  and  art, 
to  be  one  and  indivisible,'1  whereby  it  became  clear  that  a  new  Eeligion, 
or  at  any  rate  a  new  Mythology,  was  needed,  for  '  the  deepest  want  and 
deficiency  of  all  modern  Art  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  artists  have  no  My- 
thology.'* 

"While  Fichte,  Schelling,  and  Schleiermacher  were  tormented  with  the 
desire  to  create  a  new  philosophy  and  a  new  religion,  it  soon  became  evi- 
dent that  a  Mythology  was  not  to  be  created  by  programme ;  and  as  a 
Mythology  was  indispensable,  the  Romanticists  betook  themselves  to  Ca- 
tholicism, with  its  saintly  legends  and  saintly  heroes ;  some  of  them,  as 
Tieck  and  A.  W.  Schlegel,  out  of  nothing  more  than  a  poetic  enthusiasm 
and  dilettanteism :  others,  as  F.  Schlegel  and  "Werner,  with  thorough  con- 
viction, accepting  Catholicism  and  all  its  consequences. 

"  Solger  had  called  Irony  the  daughter  of  Mysticism ;  and  how  highly 
these  Romanticists  prized  Mysticism  is  know  to  all  readers  of  Novalis.  To 
be  mystical  was  to  be  poetical  as  well  as  profound ;  and  our  critics  glorified 
mediaeval  monstrosities  because  of '  their  deep  spiritualism,'  which  stood 
in  contrast  with  the  pagan  materialism  of  Goethe  and  Schiller.  Once  com- 
menced, this  movement  rushed  rapidly  onwards  to  the  confines  of  non- 
sense. Art  became  the  handmaid  of  Religion.  The  universal  canon  was 
laid  down  (and  still  lingers  in  some  quarters),  that  only  in  the  service  of 
Religion  had  Art  ever  flourished, — only  in  that  service  could  it  flourish. 
Art  became  a  propagande.  Fra  Angelico  and  Calderon  suddenly  became 
idols.  Theory  was  bursting  with  absurdities.  Werner  was  proclaimed  a 
Colossus  by  Wackenroder,  who  wrote  his  Herzensergiesgungen  tines  Kunstr- 
lidtenden  Eloattrbruders,  with  Tieck's  aid,  to  prove,  said  Goethe,  that  be- 
cause some  monks  were  artists,  all  artists  should  turn  monks.  Then  it 
was,  men  looked  to  Faith  for  miracles  in  Art.  Devout  study  of  the  Bible 
was  thought  to  be  the  readiest  means  of  rivalling  Fra  Angelico  and  Van 
Eyck ;  a  hair-shirt  was  inspiration.  The  painters  went  over  in  crowds  to 
the  Roman  Church.  Cornelius  and  Overbeck  lent  real  genius  to  the  at- 
tempt to  revive  the  dead  forms  of  early  Christian  art,  as  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler did  to  revive  the  dead  forms  of  Grecian  art.  Overbeck.  who  painted  in 
a  cloister,  was  so  thoroughly  penetrated  by  the  ascetic  spirit,  that  he  re- 
fused to  draw  from  the  living  model,  lest  it  should  make  his  works  too 
natwalistic ;  for  to  be  true  to  Nature  was  tantamount  to  being  false  to  the 


1  F.  Schlegel :  Ge»priioh«  iiber  Po&sie,  p.  263.  »  IblcL,  p.  2T4, 


CLASSIC   AND    ROMANTIC   POETKY.  203 

ranks,  know  by  heart  the  verses  of  Calderon  and  Camoens. 
Shakspeare  is  as  much  admired  by  the  populace  in  England 
as  by  those  of  a  higher  class.  The  poems  of  Goethe  and  Bur- 
ger are  set  to  music,  and  repeated  from  the  banks  of  the  Rhine 
to  the  shores  of  the  Baltic.  Our  French  poets  are  admired 
wherever  there  are  cultivated  minds,  either  in  our  own  nation, 
or  in  the  rest  of  Europe ;  but  they  are  quite  unknown  to  the 
common  people,  and  even  to  the  class  of  citizens  in  our  towns, 

higher  tendencies  of  spiritualism.  Cornelius,  more  of  an  artist,  had  too 
much  of  the  artistic  instinct  to  carry  his  principles  into  these  exaggerations ; 
hut  others  less  gifted,  and  more  bigoted,  carried  those  principles  into  every 
excess.  A  hand  of  these  reformers  established  themselves  in  Rome,  and 
astonished  the  Catholics  quite  as  much  as  the  Protestants.  Cesar  Masini, 
in  his  work  Dei  Puristi  in  Pittura  thus  describes  them:  'Several  young 
men  came  to  Rome  from  Northern  Germany  in  1809.  They  abjured  Prot- 
estantism, adopted  the  costume  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  began  to  preach 
the  doctrine  that  painting  had  died  out  with  Giotto,  and  to  revive  it,  a  re- 
currence to  the  old  style  was  necessary.  Under  such  a  mask  of  piety  they 
concealed  their  nullity.  Servile  admirers  of  the  rudest  periods  in  Art,  they 
declared  the  pigmies  were  giants,  and  wanted  to  bring  us  back  to  the  dry 
hard  style  and  barbarous  imperfection  of  a  Buffalmacco,  Calandrino,  Paolo 
Uccello,  when  we  had  a  Raphael,  a  Titian,  and  a  Correggio.'  In  spite  of 
the  exaggerations  of  these  admirers  of  the  Trecentisti,  in  spite  of  a  doc- 
trine which  was  fundamentally  vicious,  the  Romanticists  made  a  decided 
revolution,  and  they  still  keep  the  lead  in  painting.  Whatever  may  be 
thought  of  the  '  German  School,'  it  must  be  confessed  that  until  Over- 
beck,  Cornelius,  Schadow,  Hess,  Lessing,  Hubner,  Sohn,  and  Kaulbach, 
the  Germans  had  no  painters  at  all ;  and  they  have  in  these  men  painters 
of  very  remarkable  power.1 

"  Such  was  the  new  school  and  its  doctrine.  Raphael  is  not  more  antag- 
onistic to  Fra  Angelico,  Titian  is  not  more  antagonistic  to  Albert  Durer, 
than  Goethe  and  Schiller  were  to  the  hectic  Novalis  and  the  dandy  Schle- 
gel.  Nevertheless,  it  is  certain  that  their  culture  of  Reflection  on  the  one 
hand,  and  of  Imitation  on  the  other,  aided  the  Romantic  movement  more 
than  their  own  works  and  strivings  retarded  it.  That  movement  has  long 
come  to  a  stand-still  in  literature,  and  its  judgment  has  been  pronounced ; 
but  with  much  obvious  mischief  it  brought  many  obvious  advantages,  and 
no  student  of  modern  literature  will  refuse  his  acknowledgment  to  the  ser- 
vices rendered  by  Romanticism  in  making  the  Middle  Ages  more  thoroughly 
understood."— (Lewes,  GoethJs  Life  and  Worlcg,  vol.  ii.  pp.  216-220.)— .£& 


1  Our  own  Pre-Raphaelite  School  is  a  child  of  the  Romantic  School.  Success  is 
assured  by  the  genius  of  MilUia  and  Hunt,  in  spite  of  the  theoretical  doctrines  they 
maintain,  and  by  their  fidelity  to  Nature ;  in  this  latter  respect  they  are  the  opposite* 
of  the  Konianticists. 


20i  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

because  the  arts,  in  France,  are  not,  as  elsewhere,  natives  of 
the  very  country  in  which  their  beauties  are  displayed. 

Some  French  critics  have  asserted  that  German  literature  is 
still  in  its  infancy.  This  opinion  is  entirely  false ;  men  who 
are  best  skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  languages  and  the  works 
of  the  ancients,  are  certainly  not  ignorant  of  the  defects  and 
advantages  attached  to  the  species  of  literature  which  they 
either  adopt  or  reject ;  but  their  character,  their  habits,  and 
their  modes  of  reasoning,  have  led  them  to  prefer  that  which 
is  founded  on  the  recollection  of  chivalry,  on  the  wonders  of 
the  middle  ages,  to  that  which  has  for  its  basis  the  mythology 
of  the  Greeks.  Romantic  literature  is  alone  capable  of  further 
improvement,  because,  being  rooted  in  our  own  soil,  that  alone 
can  continue  to  grow  and  acquire  fresh  life :  it  expresses  our 
religion  ;  it  recalls  our  history  ;  its  origin  is  ancient,  although 
not  of  classical  antiquity. 

Classic  poetry,  before  it  comes  home  to  us,  must  pass 
through  our  recollections  of  paganism  :  that  of  the  Germans 
is  the  Christian  era  of  the  fine  arts ;  it  employs  our  personal 
impressions  to  excite  strong  and  vivid  emotions ;  the  genius 
by  which  it  is  inspired  addresses  itself  immediately  to  our 
hearts,  and  seems  to  call  forth  the  spirit  of  our  own  lives,  of 
all  phantoms  at  once  the  most  powerful  and  the  most  terrible. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OF     GERMAN     POEMS. 

FROM  the  various  reflections  contained  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  I  think  we  must  conclude  that  there  is  scarcely  any 
classic  poetry  in  Germany — whether  we  consider  it  as  imitated 
from  the  ancients,  or  whether  by  the  word  classic  we  merely 
understand  the  highest  degree  of  perfection.  The  fruitful  im- 
agination of  the  Germans  leads  them  to  produce,  rather  than 


GERMAN    POEMS.  205 

to  correct ;  and  therefore  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  quote  in 
their  literature  any  writings  generally  acknowledged  as  models. 
Their  language  is  not  fixed ;  taste  changes  with  every  new 
production  of  men  of  genius ;  all  is  progressive,  all  goes  on, 
and  the  stationary  point  of  perfection  is  not  yet  attained  ;  but 
is  this  an  evil  ?  In  all  those  nations  which  have  flattered 
themselves  with  having  reached  it,  the  symptoms  of  decay 
have  been  almost  immediately  perceived,  and  imitators  have 
succeeded  classical  writers,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  disgusting 
us  with  their  writings. 

In  Germany  there  are  as  many  poets  as  in  Italy ;  the  multi- 
tude of  attempts,  of  whatever  kind  they  may  be,  indicates  the 
natural  disposition  of  a  nation.  When  the  love  of  art  is 
universal  in  it,  the  mind  naturally  takes  a  direction  towards 
poetry,  as  elsewhere  towards  politics  or  mercantile  interests. 
Among  the  Greeks  there  was  a  crowd  of  poets ;  and  nothing 
is  more  favorable  to  genius  than  being  surrounded  with  a  great 
number  of  men  who  follow  the  same  career.  Artists  are  indul- 
gent when  judging  of  faults,  because  the  difficulties  of  an  art 
are  known  to  them ;  but  they  exact  much  before  they  bestow 
approbation ;  great  beauties  and  new  beauties  must  be  pro- 
duced, before  any  work  of  art  can  in  their  eyes  equal  the  chefs- 
d'oeuvre  which  continually  occupy  their  thoughts.  The  Ger- 
mans write  extempore,  if  we  may  so  express  it,  and  this  great 
facility  is  the  true  sign  of  genius  in  the  fine  arts ;  for,  like  the 
flowers  of  the  South,  they  ought  to  bloom  without  culture ; 
labor  improves  them ;  but  imagination  is  abundant,  when  a 
liberal  nature  has  imparted  it  to  man..  It  is  impossible  to 
mention  all  the  German  poets  who  would  deserve  a  separate 
eulogy ;  I  will  confine  myself  merely  to  the  consideration,  and 
that  in  a  general  manner,  of  the  three  schools  which  I  have 
already  distinguished,  when  I  pointed  out  the  historical  pro- 
gress of  German  literature. 

Wieland  in  his  tales  has  imitated  Voltaire,  and  often  Lucian 
also,  who,  in  a  philosophical  point  of  view,  might  be  called  the 
Voltaire  of  antiquity;  sometimes,  too,  he  has  imitated  Ariosto, 
and  unfortunately,  also  Crebillon.  He  has  rendered  several 


206  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

tales  of  chivalry  into  verse — namely,  Gandalin,  Giron  le  Cour- 
tois,  Oberon,  itc.,  in  which  there  is  more  sensibility  than  in 
Ariosto,  but  always  less  of  grace  and  gayety.  The  German 
does  not  glide  over  all  subjects  with  the  ease  and  lightness  of 
the  Italian ;  and  the  pleasantries  suitable  to  a  language  so 
overcharged  with  consonants,  are  those  connected  with  the  art 
of  strongly  characterizing  a  subject,  rather  than  of  indicating 
it  imperfectly.  Idris  and  the  New  Amadis  are  fairy  tales,  in 
which  at  every  page  the  virtue  of  women  is  the  subject  of 
those  everlasting  pleasantries,  which  cease  to  be  immoral,  be- 
cause they  have  become  tiresome.  Wieland's  tales  of  chivalry 
appear  to  me  much  superior  to  his  poems  imitated  from  the 
Greek — Musarion,  Endymion,  Ganymede,  the  Judgment  of  Paris, 
&c.  Tales  of  chivalry  are  national  in  Germany.  The  natural 
genius  of  the  language,  and  of  its  poets,  is  well  adapted  to  the 
art  of  painting  the  exploits  and  the  loves  of  those  knights  and 
heroines,  whose  sentiments  were  at  the  same  time  so  strong 
and  so  simple,  so  benevolent  and  so  determined ;  but  in  at- 
tempting to  unite  modern  grace  with  Grecian  subjects,  Wieland 
has  necessarily  rendered  them  affected.  Those  who  endeavor 
to  modify  ancient  taste  by  that  of  the  moderns,  or  modern 
taste  by  that  of  the  ancients,  are  almost  always  so.  To  be 
secure  from  this  danger,  we  must  treat  each  of  these  subjects 
entirely  according  to  its  own  nature. 

Oberon  passes  in  Germany  almost  for  an  epic  poem.  It  is 
founded  on  a  tale  of  French  chivalry,  Huon  de  Bourdeaux,  of 
which  M.  de  Tressan  has  given  us  an  abstract ;  and  Oberon  the 
Genius,  with  Titania  the  Fairy,  just  such  as  Shakspeare  has 
described  them  in  the  play  of  the  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  constitute  the  mythology  of  the  poem.  The  subject 
is  given  by  our  old  romantic  writers ;  but  we  cannot  too  much 
admire  the  poetry  with  which  Wieland  has  enriched  it.  Pleas- 
antry, drawn  from  the  marvellous,  is  there  handled  with  much 
grace  and  originality.  Huon  is  sent  into  Palestine,  in  conse- 
quence of  various  adventures,  to  ask  the  daughter  of  the  sul- 
tan in  marriage ;  and  when  the  gravest  personages  who  oppose 
that  marriage  are  all  set  dancing,  at  the  sound  of  the  singular 


GERMAN    POEMS.  20  i 

horn  which  he  possesses,  we  are  never  tired  by  tlic  skilful 
repetition  of  the  comic  effect  it  produces ;  and  the  better  the 
poet  has  described  the  pedantic  gravity  of  the  imaums  and 
viziers  at  the  court  of  the  sultan,  the  more  his  readers  are 
amused  by  their  involuntary  dance.  When  Oberon  carries 
the  two  lovers  through  the  air  in  a  winged  car,  the  terror  of 
that  prodigy  is  dissipated  by  the  security  with  which  love  in- 
spires them;  "  In  vain,"  says  the  poet,  "  earth  disappears  to 
their  sight ;  in  vain  night  covers  the  atmosphere  with  her  dark 
wings  ;  a  heavenly  light  beams  in  their  tender  glances ;  their 
souls  mutually  reflect  each  other ;  night  is  no  longer  night  for 
them ;  elysium  surrounds  them ;  the  sun  enlightens  the  re- 
cesses of  their  hearts,  and  love  every  moment  shows  them 
objects,  always  new  and  always  delightful."  Sensibility  is  not 
in  general  much  connected  with  the  marvellous  :  there  is  some- 
thing so  serious  in  the  affections  of  the  soul,  that  we  like  not 
to  see  them  drawn  forth  with  the  sports  of  the  imagination ; 
but  Wieland  has  the  art  of  uniting  fantastic  fictions  with  true 
sentiments,  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself. 

The  baptism  of  the  sultan's  daughter,  who  becomes  a  Chris- 
tian in  order  to  marry  Huon,  is  also  a  most  beautiful  passage  : 
to  change  one's  religion  for  the  sake  of  love  is  a  little  profane ; 
but  Christianity  is  so  truly  the  religion  of  the  heart,  that  to 
love  with  devotion  and  purity  is  already  to  be  a  convert. 
Oberon  has  made  the  young  people  promise  not  to  give  them- 
selves up  to  each  other  till  their  arrival  in  Rome ;  they  are 
together  in  the  same  ship,  and,  separated  from  the  world,  love 
induces  them  to  violate  their  vow.  The  tempest  is  then  let 
loose,  the  winds  blow,  the  billows  roar,  and  the  sails  are  torn ; 
the  masts  arc  destroyed  by  the  thunderbolt;  the  passengers 
bewail  themselves,  the  sailors  cry  for  help :  at  length  the  ves- 
sel splits,  the  waves  threaten  to  swallow  them  up,  and  the 
presence  of  death  can  scarcely  take  from  the  young  couple 
their  sense  of  earthly  happiness.  They  are  precipitated  in  the 
ocean  :  an  invisible  power  preserves  and  lands  them  on  a  des- 
ert island,  where  they  find  a  hermit,  whom  religion  and  mis- 
fortunes have  led  to  that  retreat. 


208  MADAME   DE   STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

Amanda,  the  espoused  of  Huon,  after  many  difficulties, 
brings  a  son  into  the  world ;  and  nothing  can  be  more  delight- 
ful than  this  picture  of  maternal  tenderness  in  the  desert :  the 
new  being  who  comes  to  animate  their  solitude,  the  uncertain 
look,  the  wandering  glance  of  infancy,  which  the  passionate 
tenderness  of  the  mother  endeavors  to  fix  on  herself,  all  is  full 
of  sentiment  and  of  truth.  The  trials  to  which  the  married 
pair  are  subjected  by  Oberon  and  Titania,  are  continued ;  but 
in  the  conclusion  their  constancy  is  rewarded.  Although  this 
poem  is  diffuse,  it  is  impossible  not  to  consider  it  as  a  charming 
work,  and  if  it  were  well  translated  into  French  verse,  it  wouH 
certainly  be  thought  so. 

There  have  been  poets,  both  before  and  since  Wieland, 
who  have  attempted  to  write  in  the  French  and  Italian  man- 
ner ;  but  what  they  have  done  scarcely  deserves  to  be  men- 
tioned :  and  if  German  literature  had  not  assumed  a  peculiar 
character,  it  certainly  would  not  form  an  epoch  in  the  history 
of  the  fine  arts.  That  of  poetry  must  in  Germany  be  fixed  at 
the  time  when  the  Messias  of  Klopstock  made  its  appearance. 

The  hero  of  that  poem,  according  to  our  mortal  language, 
inspires  admiration  and  pity  in  the  same  degree,  without  either 
of  these  sentiments  being  weakened  by  the  other.  A  gener- 
ous poet1  said,  in  speaking  of  Louis  XVI, 

"  Jamais  tant  de  respect  n'admit  tant  de  pitieV' 

This  verse,  so  affecting  and  so  delicate,  might  serve  to  ex- 
press the  tender  emotions  we  experience  in  reading  Klopstock's 
Messias.  The  subject  of  it  is,  without  doubt,  vastly  superior  to 
all  the  inventions  of  genius ;  a  great  deal,  however,  is  requisite 
to  display  with  so  much  sensibility  the  human  nature  in  the 
divine,  and  with,  so  much  force  the  divine  nature  in  the  mortal. 
Much  talent  is  also  required  to  excite  interest  and  anxiety  in 
the  recital  of  an  event,  previously  determined  by  an  all-power- 
ful Will.  Klopstock  has,  with  great  art,  at  once  united  all  that 
terror  and  that  hope  which  the  fatality  of  the  ancients  and  the 
providence  of  Christians  can  jointly  inspire. 

1  M.  de  Sabraii. 


GERMAN   POEMS.  209 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  character  of  Abbadona,  the 
repentant  demon,  who  seeks  to  do  good  to  man  :  a  devouring 
remorse  attaches  itself  to  his  immortal  nature ;  his  regret  has 
heaven  itself  for  its  object — that  heaven  which  he  has  known, 
those  celestial  spheres  which  were  his  habitation.  What  a  situ- 
ation is  this  return  towards  virtue,  when  the  decree  is  irrevoca- 
ble !  to  complete  the  torments  of  Hell,  nothing  is  wanting  but 
to  make  it  the  abode  of  a  soul  again  awakened  to  sensibility ! 
Our  religion  is  not  familiarized  to  us  in  poetry ;  and,  among 
modern  poets,  Klopstock  has  known  best  how  to  personify  the 
spirituality  of  Christianity,  by  situations  and  pictures  the  most 
analogous  to  its  nature. 

There  is  but  one  episode  which  has  love  for  its  object  in  all 
the  work;  and  this  love  subsists  between  two  persons  who 
have  been  raised  from  the  dead — Cidli  and  Semida:  Jesus 
Christ  has  restored  them  both  to  life,  and  they  love  each  other 
with  an  affection  pure  and  celestial  as  their  new  existence; 
they  no  longer  consider  themselves  as  subject  to  death ;  they 
hope  to  pass  together  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  that  neither 
of  them  will  experience  the  anguish  of  approaching  separation. 
What  an  affecting  conception  does  such  a  love  present  to  us 
in  a  religious  poem ! — a  love  which  could  alone  harmonize 
with  the  general  tenor  of  the  work.  It  must  nevertheless  be 
owned,  that  from  a  subject  so  continually  and  so  highly  exalted 
there  results  a  little  monotony;  the  soul  is  fatigued  by  too 
much  contemplation,  and  the  author  seems  sometimes  to  re- 
quire readers  already  risen  from  the  grave,  like  Cidli  and 
Semida. 

This  defect  might,  it  seems  to  me,  have  been  avoided,  with- 
out introducing  any  thing  profane  in  the  Messiax :  it  would 
perhaps  have  been  better  to  have  taken  the  whole  life  of  Jesus 
Christ  for  the  subject  of  the  poem,  than  to  begin  at  the  mo- 
ment when  his  enemies  demand  his  death.  The  colors  of  the 
East  might  with  more  art  have  been  employed  to  paint  Syria, 
and  to  characterize,  in  a  strong  manner,  the  state  of  the  human 
race  under  the  empire  of  Rome.  There  is  too  much  discourse, 
and  too  many  long  conversations  in  the  Messiahs ;  eloquence 


210  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

itself  is  less  striking  to  the  imagination  than  a  situation,  a  char- 
acter, a  picture,  which  leaves  us  something  to  guess  at.  The 
Logos,  or  the  Divine  Word,  existed  before  the  creation  of  the 
world ;  but  with  poets  the  creation  ought  to  precede  the  Word. 

Klopstock  has  also  been  reproached  with  not  having  suffi- 
ciently varied  the  portraits  of  his  angels.  It  is  true,  that  in 
perfection  it  is  difficult  to  point  out  variety,  and  that  in  gen- 
eral men  are  characterized  by  defects  alone  :  some  distinguish- 
ing traits,  however,  might  have  been  given  to  this  great  pic- 
ture ;  but,  above  all,  as  it  appears  to  me,  ten  cantos  should  not 
have  been  added  to  that  which  terminates  the  principal  action, 
which  is  the  death  of  our  Saviour.  These  ten  cantos  undoubt- 
edly contain  much  lyrical  beauty ;  but  when  a  work,  of  what- 
ever kind,  excites  dramatic  interest,  it  ought  to  conclude 
whenever  that  interest  ceases.  Reflections  and  sentiments, 
which  we  should  read  elsewhere  with  the  greatest  pleasure, 
are  most  frequently  tiresome  when  a  more  lively  emotion  has 
preceded  them.  We  consider  books,  nearly  as  we  would  con- 
sider men ;  and  we  always  exact  from  them  what  they  have 
accustomed  us  to  expect. 

Throughout  all  Klopstock's  work  we  perceive  a  mind  highly 
elevated  and  sensitive ;  nevertheless,  the  impressions  which  it 
excites  are  too  uniform,  and  funeral  ideas  are  too  numerous. 
Life  goes  on,  only  because  we  forget  death  ;  and  it  is  for  that 
reason,  without  doubt,  that  we  shudder  whenever  the  idea  of 
death  recurs  to  us.  In  the  Messias,  as  well  as  in  Young's 
Night  Thoughts,  we  are  too  often  brought  back  to  the  tomb : 
the  arts  would  be  entirely  at  an  end,  if  we  were  always  ab- 
sorbed in  that  species  of  meditation;  for  we  require  a  very 
energetic  sentiment  of  existence,  to  enable  us  to  look  on  the 
world  with  the  animation  of  poetry.  The  Pagans,  in  their 
poems,  as  well  as  on  the  bas-reliefs  of  their  sepulchres,  always 
represented  varied  pictures,  and  thus  made  even  of  death  an 
action  of  life ;  but  the  vague  and  uncertain  thoughts  which 
accompany  the  Christian  in  his  last  moments,  are  more  con- 
nected with  the  emotions  of  the  heart  than  with  the  lively 
colors  of  the  imagination. 


GERMAN   POEMS.  211 

Klopstock  has  composed  religious  and  patriotic  odes,  with 
many  other  elegant  productions  on  various  subjects.1  In  his 
religious  odes,  he  knows  how  to  invest  unbounded  ideas  with 
visible  imagery ;  but  sometimes  this  sort  of  poetry  is  lost  in 
the  immeasurable  which  it  would  embrace. 

It  is  difficult  to  quote  any  particular  verses  in  his  religious 
odes  which  may  be  repeated  as  detached  sentences.  The 
beauty  of  his  poetry  consists  in  the  general  impression  which 
it  produces.  Should  we  ask  the  man  who  contemplates  the 
sea — that  immensity  which  is  always  in  motion,  yet  always  in- 
exhaustible, which  seems  to  give  an  idea  of  all  periods  of  time 
at  once,  of  all  its  successions  become  simultaneous ; — should  we 
ask  him,  while  wave  follows  wave,  to  count  the  pleasures  he 
experiences  while  ruminating  on  their  progress?  It  is  the 
same  with  religious  meditations  embellished  by  poetry ;  they 
are  worthy  of  admiration  if  they  inspire  new  zeal  to  attain 
higher  degrees  of  perfection,  if  we  feel  ourselves  the  better  for 
having  indulged  in  them :  and  this  is  the  criterion  by  which 
we  should  form  our  judgment  of  this  species  of  composition. 

Among  the  odes  of  Klopstock,  those  written  on  the  French 
Revolution  scarcely  deserve  to  be  mentioned ;  the  present  mo- 
ment has  no  inspiration  for  the  poet ;  he  must  place  himself  at 
a  distance  from  the  age  in  which  he  lives,  in  order  either  to 
judge  or  to  describe  it  well :  but  the  efforts  made  by  Klopstock 
to  revive  patriotism  among  the  Germans  are  highly  honorable 
to  him.  From  the  poetry  composed  with  this  laudable  inten- 
tion, I  will  endeavor  to  give  his  song  of  the  Bards  after  the 
death  of  Hermann,  called  by  the  Romans  Anninius :  he  was 
assassinated  by  the  Princes  of  Germany,  who  were  jealou-  of 
his  success  and  of  his  power. 

1  "No  one,"  says  the  German  critic  Gervinus,  "  had  attained  to  the  true 
tone  of  bardic  inspiration,  to  the  simple  sublimity  of  Hebrew  poetry,  and 
to  the  genuine  spirit  of  classical  antiquity,  in  the  same  degree  as  Klop- 
Btock  in  his  earlier  Odes ;  where  we  seem  to  listen  in  turn  to  Horace,  to 
David,  and,  what  is  more  extraordinary,  to  Ossian,  before  the  world  knew 
any  thing  about  him.  Such  gifts  were  not  possessed  by  even  Lessing  and 
Wieland.  They  first  rekindled  in  Herder,  but  only  to  imitation,  and  after- 
wards in  Goethe  to  original  production." — Ed. 


212  MADAME    DE    STAEL/S    GEKMANY. 

li  HERMANN." 
"THE  BARDS  WERDOMAR,  KERDING,  AND  DARMOND, 

' '  WERDOMAK. 

"Upon  this  stone  with  ancient  moss  o'erlaid 

Rest  we,  0  Bards,  and  be  our  song  begun. 
Let  none  advance  to  gaze  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  in  death  Teutonia's  noblest  son. 

•'  For  there  he  lies  in  blood,  whose  life 

Was  erst  the  Romans'  secret  dread, 
When  they  in  triumph  to  the  jocund  fife 
His  own  Thusnelda*  led. 

"  Cast  not  a  glance  !  for  ye  would  weej 

To  see  him  lying  in  his  gore. 
And  not  to  tears  the  Telyn's  string  we  sweep  . 
We  sing  of  those  who  die  no  more  ! 

"  KERDING. 

"  Bright  are  my  locks  of  youthful  hair, 

And  first  to-day  I  girded  on  the  sword. 
Arm'd  for  the  first  time  with  the  lyre  and  spear, 
Must  I  too  sing  the  warrior-lord  ? 

"  Ask  not  too  much,  0  sires,  of  one  so  young, 
For  I  must  dry  up  with  my  locks  of  gold 
These  burning  tears,  before  the  harp  be  strung 
To  sing  the  first  of  Mana's3  offspring  bold. 

"  DARMOND. 

"  I  weep  for  frantic  ire  ! 

Nor  would  my  tears  assuage ! 
Flow,  flow  adown  my  cheek  of  fire, 
Ye  tears  of  rage  ! 

1  We  have  adopted  the  version  of  Mr.  Wm.  Nind,  Odes  of  Klopstock^  p. 
258.— Ed. 

3  She  was  taken  prisoner  by  Germanicus  in  his  first  battle  with  Her- 
mann, and  afterwards  figured  in  his  triumph. 

s  Mana,  son  of  Tuisco,  mythological  ancestor  of  the  Germans 


GERMAN    I'OEMS.  213 

"  They  are  not  dumb,  not  mute  they  flow  ! 
Hear,  Hela,1  hear  their  curse  of  might. 
No  traitor  of  the  land  that  laid  him  low 
Die  in  the  fields  of  fight. 

"  WERDOMAK. 

"  See  ye  the  torrent  dash 

Down  through  the  rock  defile? 
And  the  torn  fir-trees  headlong  crash 
For  Hermann's  funeral  pile  ? 

"Soon  is  he  dust,  and  laid 

In  clay-marl  of  the  tomb  : 
And  with  the  dust  the  hallow' d  blade, 
On  which  he  swore  the  conqueror's  doom. 

"Thou  spirit  that  hast  left  his  form, 
Upon  thy  flight  to  Sigtnar1  stay  ! 
And  hear  thy  people's  heart  how  warm 
It  beats  for  thee  to-day  ! 

/(  KKKDINO. 

"  Tell  not  Thusnelda,  tell  her  not, 

Here  lies  in  blood  her  pride,  her  joy 
A  wife,  a  hapless  mother,  tell  her  not 
Here  lies  the  father  of  her  beauteous  boy  ! 

' '  Fetters  already  has  she  borne 

The  triumph  of  the  foe  to  swell. 
Thou  hast  a  Roman  heart,  if,  thus  forlorn, 
To  her  thou  canst  the  tidings  tell. 

"  DARMOND. 

' '  What  sire  begat  thee,  hapless  one  ! 
Segestes,8  with  revengeful  thirst 
His  sword  did  redden  in  his  bleeding  son ! 
Him  curse  not ! — Hela  has  already  cursed  ! 

1  Hela  reigned  over  the  dreary  region  whither  the  shades  of  the  dead 
were  taken  who  had  not  died  in  fight.  The  latter  were  admitted  into 
Odin's  hall. 

*  Sigmar,  Hermann's  father. 

1  Segeates,  Thusnelda's  father,  quarrelled  with  his  son-in-law,  and  con- 
spired with  those  who  slew  him. 


214  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

"  WERDOMAR. 

"  Name  not  Segestes,  ye  that  sing ! 

His  name  to  mute  oblivion  doom  ; 
That,  where  he  lies,  her  heavy  wing 
May  darken  o'er  his  tomb  ! 

"  The  string  that  sounds  the  name 

Of  Hermann  bears  disgrace, 
If  but  one  note  of  scorn  and  shame 
Denounce  the  traitor  base. 

"  For  Hermann,  Hermann  to  the  mountain  call, 
To  the  deep  grove,  the  favorite  of  the  brave, 
The  bards  in  chorus  sing.     In  chorus  all 
"Sing  the  bold  chief,  who  did  his  country  save. 

"  Sister  of  Cannae,  Winfeld's  fight, 

I  saw  thee  with  thy  bloody-waving  hair, 
With  flame-glance  of  avenging  might 

Wave  through  Walhalla,  'mid  the  minstrels  there  ! 

"  The  son  of  Drusus1  fain 

Would  hide  thy  mouldering  monument, — 
The  blanch'd  bones  of  the  fallen  slain 
Together  in  the  death-vale  blent.    . 

"  We  suflfer'd  not,  but  strew'd  in  dust  the  mound, 

For  these  are  vouchers  of  the  mighty  rout ; 
And  they  shall  hear,  when  flowers  are  on  the  ground, 
The  war-dance  and  the  victor's  shout. 

"  Sisters  to  Cannae  would  he  yet  have  given, 

With  Varus  many  a  Roman  would  have  laid  ; 
Had  not  the  rival  chiefs  for  envy  striven, 
Caecina  had  sought  Varus'  shade  ! 

"  In  Hermann's  sonl  of  fire 

Slumber'd  a  thought  of  mighty  will. 
At  midnight,  by  Thor's  altar,  to  the  lyre 
He  form'd  his  vow,  impetuous  to  fulfil. 

"  He  thought  thereon,  when  at  the  high  repast 
The  warriors  danced  amid  the  lances  gay  ; 
And  round  about  the  daring  dance  he  cast 
The  blood-rings — to  the  boys  a  play. 

1  Germanicus,  the  son  of  Drusus,  upon  arriving  at  the  spot  of  Varus's 
defeat,  found  the  bones  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  buried  them. 


GERMAN   POEMS.  215 

"  The  storm-toss' d  mariner  his  tale  resolves  : 
'  Far  in  the  North  there  lies  a  rocky  isle, 
Where  fiery  vapor,  like  the  clouds,  revolves, 
Then  flames,  and  flings  forth  rock  for  many  a  mile  !' 

"  So  Hermann  kindled  at  the  fight ; 

Resolved,  like  floods  of  fiery  foam, 
Over  the  ice-crown' d  Alps  to  roll  his  might 
Down  on  the  plains  of  Rome  ! — 

"  To  die  there  ! — or  the  Capitol  invade, 

And  hard  by  Jove's  high  fane,  demand 
Of  mad  Tiberius,  and  his  father's  shade, 
Right  for  his  plunder 'd  Fatherland. 

"  Therefore  he  claim' d  the  chieftain's  rule 

Among  the  princes  :  and  they  slew  him  then  ! 
He  lies  in  blood,  who  cherish' d  in  his  soul 
His  country  more  than  other  men  ! 

"  DAKMOND. 

"  0  Hela,  hast  thou  heard 

My  tears,  that  burning  fall  ? 
'Tis  thine  to  give  a  just  award  : 
0  Hela,  hear  theic  call ! 

' '  KERDINO. 

"  In  Walhalla  Sigtnar  rests  beneath  the  golden  ash  ;* 
In  his  hand  the  victor's  branch  ;  the  lances  round  him  clash. 
By  Tuisco  beckon'd,  and  by  Mana's  hand  led  on, 
There  the  youthful  hero-sire  receives  his  youthful  son. 

"  WERDOMAR. 

"  But  Sigmar  there  in  silent  woe 

His  Hermann  greets  again. 
Not  now  Tiberius,  and  the  shades  below, 
He  challenges  at  Jove's  high  fane." 


1  The  Golden  Ash.— "  'Where,'  asked  Gangler,  'is  the  chief  or  holiest 
seat  of  the  gods  ?'  '  It  is  under  the  ash,  Yggdrasill,'  replied  Har, '  where 
the  gods  assemble  every  day  in  council That  ash  is  the  great- 
est and  best  of  all  trees.  Its  branches  spread  over  the  whole  world,  and 
even  reach  above  heaven.' " — Prose  Edda. 


216  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

There  are  several  other  poems  of  Klopstock  in  which,  as 
well  as  in  this,  he  recalls  to  the  Germans  the  noble  deeds  of 
their  ancestors ;  but  those  recollections  have  scarcely  any  con- 
nection with  the  present  state  of  their  nation.  We  perceive 
in  these  poems  a  vague  sort  of  enthusiasm,  a  desire  which 
cannot  obtain  its  object ;  and  the  slightest  national  song  of  a 
free  people  causes  a  truer  emotion.  Scarcely  any  traces  of  the 
ancient  history  of  the  Germans  are  now  remaining,  and  that  of 
modern  times  is  too  much  divided,  and  too  confused,  to  be 
capable  of  producing  popular  sentiments ;  it  is  in  their  hearts 
alone  that  the  Germans  must  discover  the  source  of  truly  pa- 
triotic poetry. 

Klopstock  frequently  treats  subjects  of  a  less  serious  nature 
in  a  very  graceful  manner;  and  this  grace  is  derived  from 
imagination  and  sensibility ;  for  in  his  poetry  there  is  not 
much  of  what  we  call  wit,  which  indeed  would  not  suit  the 
lyric  character.  In  his  Ode  to  the  Nightingale  he  has  given 
novelty  to  a  worn-out  subject,  by  imparting  to  the  bird  senti- 
ments so  tender  yet  so  animated,  both  on  nature  and  on  man, 
that  it  seems  like  a  winged  mediator,  carrying  from  one  to  the 
other  the  tribute  of  its  love  and  praise.  An  Ode  on  Rhenish 
Wine  is  very  original :  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  form  a  truly 
national  image  for  the  Germans ;  they  have  nothing  in  all  their 
country  superior  to  it.  Vines  grow  in  the  same  places  that 
have  given  birth  to  so  many  warlike  actions ;  and  wine,  a  hun- 
dred years  old,  the  contemporary  of  more  glorious  days,  seems 
still  to  retain  the  generous  warmth  of  former  times. 

Klopstock  has  not  only  drawn  from  Christianity  the  greatest 
beauties  of  his  religious  works,  but  as  it  was  his  wish  that  the 
literature  of  his  country  should  be  entirely  independent  of  that 
of  the  ancients,  he  has  endeavored  to  give  to  German  poetry  a 
perfectly  new  mythology  borrowed  from  the  Scandinavians. 
Sometimes  he  uses  it  in  rather  too  learned  a  manner,  but  at 
others  he  applied  it  very  happily ;  and  his  imagination  has 
felt  the  relations  which  subsist  between  the  gods  of  the  North 
and  the  aspect  of  nature  over  which  they  preside. 

There  is  a  very  charming  ode  of  his,  entitled  The  Art  of 


GERMAN   POEMS.  217 

Tialf,  in  other  words,  The  Art  of  Skating,1  invented  it  is  said 
by  the  Giant  Tialf.  He  describes  a  young  and  beautiful  female 
clothed  in  furs,  and  placed  on  a  sledge  formed  like  a  car ;  the 
young  people  who  surround  it,  by  a  slight  push,  drive  it  for- 
wards with  the  rapidity  of  lightning.  They  choose  for  its 
path  the  frozen  torrent,  which  during  the  winter  offers  the 
safest  road.  The  locks  of  the  young  men  are  strewed  over 
with  shining  particles  of  frost ;  the  girls  who  follow  the  sledge 
fasten  to  their  feet  little  wings  of  steel,  which  in  a  moment 
carry  them  to  a  considerable  distance ;  the  song  of  the  bards 
accompanies  this  northern  dance ;  the  gay  procession  passes 
under  elms  covered  with  flowers  of  snow ;  the  ice  cracks  under 
their  feet,  a  momentary  terror  disturbs  their  enjoyment ;  but 


1  "  This  joyous  exercise,"  says  Goethe,  "we  owed  also  to  Klopstock.  I 
well  remember  springing  out  of  bed  one  clear,  frosty  morning,  and  declaim- 
ing to  myself  ('  Schon  von  dem  GefuhUJ  etc.) — 

Already  with  the  glow  of  health  elate. 
Descending  swift  the  frozen  shore  along, 

The  crystal  I  have  whiten'd  with  my  skate, 
In  mazes  as  to  Braga's  song.1 

My  lingering  and  doubtful  resolution  was  at  once  decided.  I  flew  forth- 
with to  the  spot  where  so  late  a  beginner  could  discreetly  practise  his  first 
attempts.  Ajnd  in  truth  this  exertion  of  strength  well  merited  Klopstock'g 
commendation.  It  brings  us  in  contact  with  the  freshness  of  childhood, 
calls  the  youth  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  suppleness  and  activity,  and  is 
fitted  to  avert  a  stagnating  old  age.  Hence  we  followed  this  sport  immod- 
erately. We  were  not  satisfied  with  thus  spending  upon  the  ice  a  glorious 
day  of  sunshine,  but  we  continued  our  motion  late  into  the  night ;  for 
while  other  modes  of  exertion  weary  the  body,  this  seems  constantly  to 
lend  it  new  strength.  The  full  moon  emerging  from  the  clouds  over  the 
white  meadows  frozen  into  fields  of  ice,  the  night  air  whistling  to  our  on- 
ward motion,  the  solemn  thunder  of  the  ice  falling  in  upon  the  receding 
water,  the  strange  distinct  echoes  of  our  own  movements,  brought  before 
us  Ossianic  scenes  in  all  their  perfection.  Now  one  friend,  and  now  an- 
other, sounded  out  in  half-singing  declamation  one  of  Klopstock's  Odes ; 
and  when  we  found  ourselves  together  in  the  dim  light,  we  were  loud  in 
sincere  praises  of  the  author  of  our  joys. 

'For  should  he  not  immortal  live, 

Whose  art  can  health  and  joy  enhance, 
Bach  as  no  mettled  steed  can  give, 
Such,  e'en,  as  pants  not  in  the  dance  f" 

(Aus  mein-ein  Lebtn.) — Ed, 
VOL.  I— 10 


218  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

soon  shouts  of  joy,  and  the  violence  of  the  exercise  preserving 
that  heat  in  the  blood  of  which  the  cold  air  would  otherwise 
deprive  it,  in  short,  the  contest  with  the  climate  revives  their 
spirits ;  and  at  the  end  of  their  course  they  reach  a  large  illu- 
minated hall,  where  a  good  fire,  with  a  feast  and  ball,  offer  to 
their  acceptance  easy  pleasures,  instead  of  those  which  they 
had  gained  from  their  struggle  with  the  rigors  of  nature.1 

1  "In  Klopstock,  born  1724,  we  see  Idealism  once  more  victoriously 
asserting  itself:  Fatherland  and  Christianity  were  the  two  sources  of  his 
inspiiation.  But  he  was  too  much  of  a  poet  not  to  have  a  large  admixture 
of  Realism,  and  too  much  of  a  German  not  to  have  a  strong  imitative  ten- 
dency. Very  remarkable  it  is  in  the  history  of  German  culture,  to  notice 
how,  in  the  dull  stagnant  periods,  Imitation  of  foreigners  is  the  ruling  mo- 
tive, and  how  also  revolutions  are  made  by  the  substitution  of  one  imita- 
tion for  another.  Like  premature  republicans,  they  cut  off  the  head  of  their 
king,  to  place  another  on  the  throne.  The  shout  of  freedom  rouses  them 
to  revolt ;  no  sooner  are  they  free,  than  the  cry  is,  '  Whom  shall  we  obey  ?' 
Gervinus  has  remarked  that  the  dictum  of  the  Klopstock  school  was  '  origi- 
nality,' by  which  they  opposed  Winckelmann,  who  declared  the  only  way 
to  produce  inimitable  works  was  to  imitate  the  ancients ;  and  yet  even  this 
cry  of  originality  was  an  imitation,  borrowed  from  the  English  poet,  Young. 
'  Curiously  enough,  even  this  notion  of  original  genius  is  not  original  with 
us ;  and  the  great  English  drama,  which  was  so  far  from  being  a  copy,  was 
copied  in  every  way  by  our  "  original"  poets  !' '  Not  only  in  the  instance 
mentioned  by  Gervinus,  but  in  the  two  great  epochs  of  German  literature 
which  preceded,  we  notice  a  similar  fact.  The  middle"  age  culture  is  every- 
where far  more  receptive  and  imitative  than  original,  and  the  famous 
knightly-poetry  is  drawn  from  Arabia,  through  France,  not  from  the  Ger- 
man-Christian soil.  Again,  when  with  Opitz  (1624)  a  new  era  begins,  we 
see  him  drawing  from  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian  models  the  rules  for 
his  Such  von  der  teutschen  Poeterey,  declaring  it  impossible  for  Germans 
to  surpass  them. 

"  In  Klopstock  we  see  the  three  elements  of  Imitation,  Christianity,  and 
Nature,  all  working  towards  Idealism.  The  poetry  of  Homer,  Pindar,  and 
Ossian  lured  him  almost  as  much  as  the  psalms  of  David,  and  the  bards 
of  his  fatherland.  His  Odes  are  inspired  by  this  triple  love ;  some  of  them 
are  religious,  some  bardic,  and  some  antique.  His  influence  was  instanta- 
neous, immense,  because  it  moved  with  the  spirit  of  the  time ;  if  succeed- 
ing years  have  left  him  somewhat  stranded  on  the  shore,  u  wreck  of  the 
past,  and  not  a  living  influence,  we  must  not  forget  the  services  he  per- 
formed in  an  age  when  he  stood  out  as  a  giant.  The  very  enthusiasm  he 
excited,  the  high  and  priestly  office  which  he  gave  the  poet,  as  a  real 
Vates,  the  services  he  rendered  to  the  rebellious  German  language,  will 


1  Gervinus,  iv.  419. 


GERMAN    POEMS.  219 

The  Ode  on  Departed  Friends,  addressed  to  Ebert,  also  de- 
serves to  be  mentioned.  Klopstock  is  less  happy  when  he 
writes  on  the  subject  of  love  ;  like  Dorat,  he  addressed  verses 
to  "  his  future  mistress,"  and  his  Muse  was  not  inspired  by  so 

secure  for  him  a  grateful  recognition  even  among  those  wearied  by  hia 
odes  and  epic. 

"  Klopstock  went  back  to  Nature,  as  well  as  to  the  early  Singers.  He 
vindicated  Bealism  by  his  free  and  joyous  habits,  by  gymnastic  exercises, 
by  skating,  of  which  he  was  passionately  fond,  and  for  which  he  wrote 
laws  with  something  of  Solonic  gravity ;  by  horsemanship,  by  bathing, 
and  by  admiration  of  pretty  women.  His  Idealism  was  no  asceticism. 
Like  Milton,  he  was  an  accomplished  cavalier,  and,  like  Milton,  passion- 
ately fond  of  music.  Remembering  Coleridge's  sarcasm,  I  will  hasten  to 
add  that  the  resemblance  to  Milton  must  not  be  pushed  much  further;  if 
he  is  a  German  Milton,  he  is  indeed  very  German.  All  such  parallels  have 
necessarily  an  imperfect  side,  but  if  one  must  bo  made,  I  would  call  Klop- 
stock  a  German  Wordsworth  rather  than  a  German  Milton ;  not  so  much 
in  reference  to  the  quality  of  his  poetry,  as  to  his  life  and  his  position  in 
national  literature.  The  first  three  cantos  of.  the  Messias,  published  in 
1748,  a  year  before  Goethe's  birth,  produced  a  wonderful  impression.  The 
rest  of  the  poem  was  delayed  till  1773,  much  to  the  regret  of  his  admirers, 
who  were  tempted  to  curse  the  generous  patron  whose  pension  enabled 
the  poet  to  be  thus  idle.  But  in  truth  a  change  had  come  over  him.  He 
grew  melancholy,  was  troubled  with  desires  for  death,  and  only  cared  to 
live  that  he  might  finish  his  religious  poem ;  and,  as  Lessing  said,  he  be- 
gan to  correct  his  verses  more  with  a  view  to  orthodoxy  than  to  art. 

"  If  in  Klopstock  we  have  the  representative  of  German  Idealism,  in 
Wieland  we  have  the  representative  of  German  Kealism.  They  are  con- 
trasts in  all  essentials.  Wieland  is  sensuous  where  Klopstock  is  supersen- 
suous,  rationnl  where  Klopstock  is  sentimental ;  philosophy  and  history 
rule  his  muse,  as  religion  and  music  ruled  that  of  Klopstock ;  and  he  is 
eminently  didactic  where  Klopstock  is  eminently  lyrical.  Wieland  had  a 
marked  preference  for  the  later  classics,  and  the  French  and  Italian  poets, 
as  Klopstock  had  for  the  northern  and  English.  Voltaire  was  to  Wieland 
what  Young  was  to  Klopstock.  Even  on  English  ground  the  same  con- 
trast is  observable.  Wieland  takes  up  Shaftesbury  and  Shakspeare ;  Klop- 
stock,— Young,  Eichardson,  and  Milton.  Klopstock  was  '  terribly  in  ear- 
nest,' as  Kemble  said  of  Kean ;  Wieland  was  a  gay,  light,  wandering 
nature,  incapable  of  any  profound  earnestness.  If  we  have  called  one  the 
German  Wordsworth,  we  may  call  the  other,  in  the  same  loose  way,  the 
German  Moore.  It  was  the  fashion  to  call  Wieland  a  Greek,  because  he 
wrote  pleasant  tales,  of  a  Frenchified  Hellenic  cast ;  but  although  in  Ag&- 
thon,  for  example,  a  certain  reflex  of  Grecian  culture  and  Grecian  light  is 
visible;  yet,  as  in  an  old  Palimpsest  you  may  still  trace  the  rugged,  inef- 
faceable writing  of  some  monkish  homily,  which  has  been  made  to  cede 
the  place  to  a  pleasant  legend,  so  under  this  surface-polish  of  culture  tho 


220  MADAME   DE    8TAEL?S    GERMANY. 

far-fetclied  a  subject ;  to  sport  with  sentiment  we  should  not 
have  suffered  from  it,  and  when  the  attempt  is  made  by  a  se- 
rious person,  a  secret  constraint  always  prevents  him  from  ap- 
pearing natural.  We  must  reckon  as  belonging  to  the  school 
of  Klopstock,  not  as  his  disciples  but  as  members  of  his  poeti- 
cal fraternity,  the  great  Haller,  who  cannot  be  mentioned  with- 
out respect,  Gessner,  and  several  others,  who  approached  the 
English  character  with  respect  to  truth  of  sentiment,  and  yet 
did  not  bear  the  truly  characteristic  stamp  of  German  litera- 
ture. 

Klopstock  himself  did  not  entirely  succeed  in  presenting  to 
Germany  an  epic  poem  at  once  sublime  and  popular,  as  a 
work  of  that  sort  ought  to  be.  Yoss's  translation  of  the  Iliad 
and  Odyssey  made  Homer  as  much  known  as  a  sketched  copy 
can  render  a  finished  original;  every  epithet  is  preserved, 
every  word  is  in  its  proper  place,  and  the  impression  made  by 
the  whole  is  forcible,  although  we  do  not  find  in  the  German 
all  the  charms  of  Greek,  which  was  the  finest  language  of  the 
South.  The  men  of  literature  in  Germany,  who  seize  with 
avidity  every  new  kind  of  writing,  endeavored  to  compose 
poems  with  the  Homeric  color  ;  and  the  Odyssey,  containing 
in  itself  many  details  of  private  life,  appeared  more  easy  to  im- 
itate than  the  Iliad. 

The  first  essay  of  this  kind  was  an  idyl  in  three  cantos  by 
Voss  himself,  entitled  Luise :  it  is  written  in  hexameters, 
which  are  generally  acknowledged  to  be  admirable ;  but  the 
pomp  of  hexameters  seems  seldom  to  accord  with  the  extreme 
nairete  of  the  subject.  Were  it  not  for  the  pure  and  religious 
emotions  which  animate  the  poem,  we  should  interest  our- 
selves but  little  in  the  very  quiet  marriage  of  the  venerable  pas- 
tor of  Grunaus  daughter.  Homer,  always  just  in  the  applica- 
tion of  his  epithets,  constantly  says,  in  speaking  of  Minerva, 
"  the  blue-eyed  daughter  of  Jupiter ;"  in  the  same  manner  Yoss 
incessantly  repeats,  "the  venerable  pastor  of  Griinau"  (der 

German  Wieland  is  unmistakably  legible." — (G.  H.  Lewes,  Gotlhit  Lift 
and  Work,  voL  L  p.  249.)— Ed. 


GERMAN   POEMS.  221 

ekrwurdiye  Pfarrer  von  Grunau).  But  the  simplicity  of  Ho- 
mer produces  so  great  an  effect,  merely  because  it  forms  a  no- 
ble contrast  with  the  dignified  grandeur  of  his  hero  and  of  the 
fate  which  pursues  him ;  but  when  the  subject  treated  of  is 
merely  a  country  pastor,  and  a  notable  woman,  his  wife,  who 
marry  their  daughter  to  the  man  she  loves,  its  simplicity  has 
less  merit  In  Germany,  descriptions  are  greatly  admired  like 
those  in  Voss's  Luise,  on  the  manner  of  making  coffee,  of 
lighting  a  pipe,  etc.,  and  those  details  are  given  with  much 
skill  and  exactness ;  it  is  a  well-painted  Flemish  picture ;  but 
it  appears  to  me  that  the  common  customs  of  life  cannot  well 
be  introduced  into  our  poems,  as  they  were  in  those  of  the  an- 
cients ;  for  those  customs  among  us  are  not  poetical,  and  our 
civilization  has  something  citizen  like  in  it.  The  ancients 
lived  almost  always  in  the  open  air,  preserving  their  relations 
with  nature,  and  their  manner  of  existence  was  rural,  but  never 
vulgar. 

The  Germans  consider  the  subject  of  a  poem  as  of  little  con- 
sequence, and  believe  that  every  thing  consists  in  the  manner 
of  treating  it.  Now  this  manner  can  scarcely  ever  be  trans- 
fused into  a  foreign  language,  and  yet  the  general  reputation 
of  Europe  is  not  to  be  despised ;  besides,  the  remembrance  of 
the  most  interesting  details  is  soon  effaced,  when  it  is  not  con- 
nected with  some  fiction  which  the  imagination  can  lay  hold 
of.  That  affecting  purity  which  constitutes  the  principal  charm 
of  Voss's  poem  is  most  conspicuous,  as  it  appears  to  me,  in 
the  nuptial  benediction  of  the  pastor,  at  the  marriage  of  his 
daughter ;  addressing  himself  to  her  with  a  flattering  voice, 
he  says :' 

"  My  daughter,  may  the  blessing  of  God  be  with  thee  :  amia- 
ble and  virtuous  child,  may  the  blessing  of  God  accompany 
thee,  both  on  earth  and  in  heaven.  I  have  been  young,  and 
now  am  old ;  and  in  this  uncertain  life  the  Almighty  h&-  sent 
me  much  joy  and  much  sorrow.  May  his  holy  name  be 
blessed  for  both!  I  shall  soon,  without  regret,  lay  my  aged 

•  We  are  obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  a  simple  literal  versio  i. — Ed. 


222  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

head  in  the  tomb  of  my  fathers,  for  my  daughter  is  happy  ;  she 
is  so  because  she  knows  that  our  souls  are  equally  the  care  of 
our  Heavenly  Father  in  sorrow  as  in  joy.  What  can  be  more 
affecting  than  the  sight  of  this  young  and  beautiful  bride !  In 
the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  she  leans  on  the  arm  of  the  friend 
who  is  to  conduct  her  through  the  path  of  life ;  it  is  with  him 
that  in  a  holy  union  she  will  partake  of  happiness  and  of  mis- 
fortune ;  it  is  she  who,  if  it  be  the  will  of  God,  will  wipe  the 
last  cold  sweat  from  the  forehead  of  her  dying  husband.  My 
soul  was  also  filled  with  presentiments  when,  on  my  wedding 
day,  I  brought  my  timid  companion  to  this  place ;  happy,  but 
serious,  I  showed  her  at  a  distance  the  extent  of  our  fields,  the 
tower  of  the  church,  and  the  pastor's  house,  in  which  we  have 
experienced  so  much  good  and  so  much  evil.  My  only  child ! 
for  thou  alone  remainest,  the  others  whom  God  had  given  to 
me,  sleep  below  under  the  church-yard  turf;  my  only  child, 
thou  goest,  following  the  path  which  led  me  hither.  The 
chamber  of  my  daughter  will  be  deserted,  her  place  at  our 
table  will  be  no  longer  occupied ;  in  vain  shall  I  listen  to  hear 
her  footsteps,  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Yes,  when  thy  husband 
takes  thee  far  from  me,  sobs  will  escape  me,  and  my  eyes,  bathed 
in  tears,  will  long  follow  thee ;  for  I  am  a  man  and  a  father, 
and  I  love  with  tenderness  this  daughter  who  also  loves  me  sin- 
cerely. But  soon  restraining  my  tears,  I  shall  lift  to  heaven  my 
supplicating  hands,  and  prostrate  myself  before  the  divine  will, 
which  has  commanded  the  wife  to  leave  her  father  and  mother 
and  follow  her  husband.  Depart  then  in  peace,  my  child ;  for- 
sake thy  family  and  thy  father's  house ;  follow  the  young  man  who 
henceforth  must  supply  to  thee  the  place  of  those  who  gave 
thee  birth ;  be  in  thy  house  like  a  fruitful  vine,  surround  thy 
table  with  noble  branches.  A  religious  marriage  is  the  purest 
of  all  earthly  felicity ;  but  if  the  Lord  found  not  the  edifice, 
how  vain  are  the  labors  of  man  !" 

This  is  true  simplicity,  that  of  the  soul ;  that  which  is  equal- 
ly suitable  to  the  monarch  and  to  his  people,  to  the  poor  and 
to  the  rich,  in  short,  to  all  the  creatures  of  God.  We  are  soon 
tired  of  descriptive  poetry  when  it  is  applied  t  j  objects  which 


GERMAN   POEMS.  223 

have  nothing  great  in  themselves ;  but  sentiments  descend  to 
us  from  heaven,  and  however  humble  be  the  abode  which  is 
penetrated  with  their  rays,  those  rays  lose  nothing  of  their 
original  beauty. 

From  the  extensive  admiration  which  Goethe  has  acquired 
in  Germany,  his  Hermann  and  Dorothea  has  obtained  the 
name  of  an  epic  poem ;  and  one  of  the  most  intelligent  men 
of  that  or  any  other  country,  M.  de  Humboldt,  the  brother  of 
the  celebrated  traveller,  has  composed  a  work  on  this  subject, 
which  contains  several  very  philosophical  and  striking  obser- 
vations. Hermann  and  Dorothea  is  translated  both  into 
French  and  English,  but  we  cannot  in  a  translation  have  any  , 
idea  of  the  charming  effect  produced  by  the  original.  From 
the  first  verse  to  the  last,  it  excites  a  tender  emotion,  and  there 
is  also,  in  its  minutest  details,  a  natural  dignity  which  would 
not  be  unsuitable  to  the  heroes  of  Homer.  Nevertheless,  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  that  the  personages  and  events  are  of 
too  little  importance ;  the  subject  is  sufficient  to  keep  up  the 
interest  when  we  read  it  in  the  original,  but  in  a  translation 
that  interest  is  destroyed.  With  respect  to  epic  poems,  it 
appears  to  me  allowable  to  establish  a  certain  literary  aristoc- 
racy :  dignity,  both  of  personages  and  of  the  historical  recol- 
lections connected  with  them,  can  alone  raise  the  imagination 
to  a  height  equal  to  the  composition  of  that  species  of  poetry. 

An  ancient  poem  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Niebelungen 
Lied*  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  seems  in  its  time  to 
have  possessed  all  the  characters  of  the  true  epic.  The  great 
actions  of  the  hero  of  northern  Germany,  Siegfried,  assassinated 
by  a  king  of  Burgundy,  and  the  vengeance  inflicted  on  that 

1  "  To  the  Germans,  this  Niebelungen  Song  is  naturally  an  object  of  no 
common  love ;  neither  if  they  sometimes  overvalue  it,  and  vague  antiqua- 
rian wonder  is  more  common  than  just  criticism,  should  the  fault  be  too 
heavily  visited.  After  long  ages  of  concealment,  they  have  found  it  in  the 
remote  wilderness,  still  standing  like  the  trunk  of  some  almost  antedilu- 
vian oak — nay,  with  boughs  on  it  still  green,  after  all  the  wind  and  weather 
of  twelve  hundred  years.  To  many  a  patriotic  feeling,  which  lingers 
fondly  in  solitary  places  of  the  Past,  it  may  well  be  a  rallying-point  and 
'Lovers'  Try  sting -Tree. "'—/..'  rlyle's  Essays,  p.  262.)— Ed, 


224  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

king  in  the  camp  of  Attila  by  the  followers  of  Siegfried,  which 
put  an  end  to  the  first  kingdom  of  Burgundy,  are  the  subject 
of  the  work.  '  An  epic  poem  is  scarcely  ever  the  work  of  one 
man ;  ages,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  must  labor 
to  perfect  it ;  patriotism,  religion,  in  short,  the  whole  exist- 
ence of  a  nation,  cannot  be  brought  into  action  but  by  some 
of  those  singularly  great  events,  which  are  not  created  by  the 
poet,  but  which  appear  to  him  in  greater  magnitude  seen 
through  the  obscurity  of  time.  The  personages  of  an  epic 
poem  ought  to  represent  the  primitive  character  of  their  na- 
tion. We  should  discover  in  them  that  indestructible  mould 
from  which  all  history  derives  its  origin. 

The  pride  and  boast  of  Germany  were  its  ancient  chivalry, 
its  strength,  its  loyalty,  the  union  of  goodness  and  simplicity 
for  which  it  was  famed,  and  that  northern  roughness,  which 
was,  however,  connected  with  the  most  exalted  sensibility. 
We  also  admire  that  Christianity  which  is  grafted  on  the 
Scandinavian  mythology  ;  that  untamed  honor,  rendered  pure 
and  sacred  by  faith ;  that  respect  for  women,  which  became 
still  more  striking  from  the  protection  it  afforded  to  the  weak ; 
that  undaunted  contempt  of  death,  that  warlike  paradise  which 
has  now  given  place  to  the  most  humane  of  all  religions.  Such 
are  the  elements  of  an  epic  poem  in  Germany.  Genius  should 
avail  itself  of  this,  and,  with  the  art  of  Medea,  reanimate  with 
new  blood  ancient  recollections. 


CHAPTER 

OF     GERMAN     POETRY. 


THE  detached  pieces  of  poetry  among  the  Germans  are,  it 
appears  to  me,  still  mor%  remarkable  than  their  poems,  and  it 
is  particularly  on  that  species  of  writing  that  the  stamp  o 
originality  is  impressed ;  it  is  also  true  that  the  authors  who 
have  written  most  in  this  manner,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Burger, 


GERMAN    POETKT.  225 

etc.,  are  of  the  modern  school,  which  alone  bears  a  truly  na- 
tional character.  Goethe  has  most  imagination,  and  Schiller 
most  sensibility ;  but  Burger  is  more  popular  than  either.  By 
successively  examining  some  poetical  pieces  of  each  of  these 
authors,  we  shall  the  better  be  able  to  form  an  idea  of  the 
Dualities  which  distinguish  them.  The  productions  of  Schiller 
bear  some  analogy  to  the  French  taste,  yet  we  do  not  find  in 
his  detached  poems  any  thing  that  resembles  the  fugitive 
pieces  of  Voltaire  ;  that  elegance  of  conversation,  and  almost 
of  manners,  transfused  into  French  poetry,  belongs  to  France 
alone ;  and  Voltaire,  in  point  of  gracefulness,  was  the  first  of 
French  writers.  It  would  be  interesting  to  compare  Schiller's 
stanzas  on  the  loss  of  youth,  entitled  the  Ideal,  with  those  of 
Voltaire,  beginning, 

"  Si  vous  voulez  que  j'aime  encore, 
Kendez  moi  1'age  des  amours,  etc." 

We  see  in  the  French  poet  the  expression  of  pleasing  regret, 
which  has  for  its  object  the  pleasures  of  love  and  the  joys  of 
life ;  the  German  poet  laments  the  loss  of  that  enthusiasm  and 
innocent  purity  of  thought  peculiar  to  early  age,  and  flatters 
himself  that  his  decline  of  life  will  still  be  embellished  by  the 
charms  of  poetry  and  of  reflection.  The  stanzas  of  Schiller 
do  not  possess  that  easy  and  brilliant  clearness  which  is  gen- 
erally so  striking  and  attractive ;  but  we  may  draw  from  them 
consolations  which  intimately  affect  the  soul.  Schiller  never 
presents  to  us  a  serious  or  profound  reflection  without  invest- 
ing it  with  noble  images ;  he  speaks  to  man  as  nature  herself 
would  speak  to  him,  for  nature  is  also  contemplative  and  poeti- 
cal. To  paint  the  idea  of  time,  she  brings  before  us  an  ever- 
flowing  stream ;  and  lest,  through  her  eternal  youth,  we  should 
forget  our  own  transient  existence,  she  adorns  herself  with 
flowers  which  quickly  fade,  and  strips  the  trees  in  autumn  of 
those  leaves  which  spring  beheld  in  all  their  beauty.  Poetry 
should  be  the  terrestrial  mirror  of  this  divinity,  and  by  colors, 
sounds,  and  rhythm,  reflect  all  the  beauties  of  the  universe. 

The  poem  entitled  The  Song  of  the  Sell,  consists  of  two 


226  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

distinct  parts  :  the  alternate  stanzas  express  the  labor  which  is 
performed  at  a  forge,  and  between  each  of  these  there  are 
charming  verses  on  the  solemn  circumstances  and  extraordi- 
nary events  commonly  announced  by  the  ringing  of  bells,  such 
as  birth,  marriage,  death,  fire,  insurrection,  etc.  We  may  trans- 
late into  French  the  fine  and  affecting  images  which  Schiller 
derives  from  those  great  epochs  of  human  life ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible properly  to  imitate  the  strophes  in  short  verse,  and 
composed  of  words  whose  rough  and  quick  sound  almost  con- 
veys to  our  ears  the  repeated  blows  and  rapid  steps  of  the 
workmen  who  direct  the  boiling  metal.  Can  a  prose  transla- 
tion give  any  just  idea  of  a  poem  of  this  sort  ?  It  is  reading 
music  instead  of  hearing  it ;  and  yet  it  is  easier  to  conceive 
the  effect  of  instruments  which  are  known  to  us,  than  of  the 
concords  and  contrasts  of  a  rhythm  and  a  language  we  are  igno- 
rant of.  Sometimes  the  regular  shortness  of  the  metre  gives 
us  an  idea  of  the  activity  of  the  workmen,  the  limited  but 
regular  force  which  they  exert  in  their  principal  operations ; 
and  sometimes,  immediately  after  this  harsh  and  strong  sound, 
we  hear  the  aerial  strains  of  enthusiasm  and  melancholy. 

The  originality  of  this  poem  is  lost,  if  we  separate  it  from 
the  effect  of  a  versification  skilfully  chosen,  where  the  rhymes 
answer  each  other  like  intelligent  echoes  modified  by  thought ; 
and  nevertheless,  these  picturesque  effects  of  sound  would  be 
bold  and  hazardous  in  French.  The  vulgarity  in  point  of  style 
continually  threatens  us :  we  have  not,  like  almost  every  other 
nation,  two  languages,  that  of  prose  and  that  of  verse ;  and  it 
is  with  words  as  with  persons — wherever  ranks  are  confounded 
familiarity  is  dangerous. 

Cassandra,  another  piece  of  Schiller's,  might  more  easily  be 
translated  into  French,  although  its  poetical  language  is  ex- 
tremely bold.  At  the  moment  when  the  festival  to  celebrate 
the  marriage  of.Polyxena  and  Achilles  is  beginning,  Cassandra 
is  seized  with  a  presentiment  of  the  misfortunes  which  will 
result  from  it ;  she  walks  sad  and  melancholy  in  the  grove  of 
Apollo,  and  laments  that  knowledge  of  futurity  which  troubles 
all  her  enjoyments.  We  see  in  this  ode  what  a  misfortune  it 


GERMAN    POETRY.  227 

would  be  to  a  human  being,  could  he  possess  the  prescience  of 
a  divinity.  Is  not  the  sorrow  of  the  prophetess  experienced 
by  all  persons  of  strong  passions  and  superior  minds  ?  Schiller 
has  given  us  a  fine  moral  idea  under  a  very  poetical  form, 
namely,  that  true  genius,  that  of  sentiment,  even  if  it  escape 
suffering  from  its  commerce  with  the  world,  is  frequently  the 
victim  of  its  own  feelings.  Cassandra  never  marries,  not  that 
she  is  either  insensible  or  rejected ;  but  her  penetrating  soul  in 
a  moment  passes  the  boundaries  of  life  and  death,  and  finds 
repose  only  in  heaven. 

I  should  never  end  if  I  were  to  mention  all  the  poetical 
pieces  of  Schiller  which  contain  new  thoughts  and  new  beau- 
ties.1 He  has  composed  a  hymn  on  the  departure  of  the 
Greeks  after  the  siege  of  Troy,  which  might  be  supposed  the 
production  of  a  poet  then  living,  so  faithfully  has  he  adhered 
to  the  complexion  of  those  times.  I  shall  examine,  under  the 
subject  of  dramatic  art,  the  admirable  skill  with  which  the 
Germans  transport  themselves  into  ages,  countries,  and  charac- 
ters, different  from  their  own, — a  superior  faculty,  without  which 
the  personages  produced  on  the  stage  would  resemble  puppets 
moved  by  the  same  wire,  and  made  to  speak  in  the  same  voice, 
namely,  that  of  the  author.  Schiller  deserves  particularly  to 
be  admired  as  a  dramatic  poet :  Goethe  stands  unrivalled  in 
the  art  of  composing  elegies,  ballads,  stanzas,  etc. ;  his  detached 
pieces  have  a  very  different  merit  from  those  of  Voltaire.  The 
French  poet  has  transfused  into  his  verse  the  spirit  of  the  most 
brilliant  society  ;  the  German,  by  a  few  slight  touches,  awakens 
in  the  soul  profound  and  contemplative  impressions.8 

Goethe  is  to  the  highest  degree  natural  in  this  species  of 
composition ;  and  not  only  so  when  he  speaks  from  his  own 
impressions,  but  even  when  he  transports  himself  to  new  cli- 

1  The  lyrical  pieces  of  Schiller  have  been  very  well  translated  by  Sir 
Bulwer  Lytton.  They  may  be  obtained,  together  with  Bulwer's  Life  of 
Schiller,  for  a  very  small  sum,  in  the  Tauchnitz  reprint. — Ed. 

1  Goethe's  Poems  and  Ballads  have  been  translated  by  Professor  Aytoun 
and  Mr.  Theodore  Martin  of  Edinburgh,  and  reprinted  in  New  York  by 
Delisser  &  Procter. — Ed, 


223  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

mates,  customs,  and  situations,  his  poetry  easily  assimilates 
itself  with  foreign  countries ;  he  seizes,  with  a  talent  perfectly 
unique,  all  that  pleases  in  the  national  songs  of  each  nation ; 
he  becomes,  when  he  chooses  it,  a  Greek,  an  Indian,  or  a  Mor- 
lachian.  We  have  often  mentioned  that  melancholy  and  medi- 
tation which  characterizes  the  poets  of  the  North  :  Goethe,  like 
all  other  men  of  genius,  unites  in  himself  most  astonishing 
contrasts ;  we  find  in  his  works  many  traces  of  character  pecu- 
liar to  the  inhabitants  of  the  South ;  they  are  more  awakened 
to  the  pleasures  of  existence,  and  have  at  once  a  more  lively 
and  tranquil  enjoyment  of  nature  than  those  of  the  North  ;  their 
minds  have  not  less  depth,  but  their  genius  has  more  vivacity ; 
we  find  in  it  a  certain  sort  of  na'ivete,  which  awakens  at  once 
the  remembrance  of  ancient  simplicity  with  that  of  the  middle 
ages :  it  is  not  the  naivete  of  innocence,  but  that  of  strength. 
We  perceive  in  Goethe's  poetical  compositions,  that  he  disdains 
the  crowd  of  obstacles,  criticisms,  and  observations,  which  may 
be  opposed  to  him.  He  follows  his  imagination  wherever  it 
leads  him,  and  a  certain  predominant  pride  frees  him  from  the 
scruples  of  self-love.1  Goethe  is  in  poetry  an  absolute  master 

1  "  In  Goethe's  mind,  the  first  aspect  that  strikes  us  is  its  calmness,  then 
its  beauty ;  a  deeper  inspection  reveals  to  us  its  vastness  and  unmeasured 
Strength.  This  man  rules,  and  is  not  ruled.  The  stern  and  fiery  energies 
of  a  most  passionate  soul  lie  silent  in  the  centre  of  its  being ;  a  trembling 
sensibility  has  been  inured  to  stand,  without  flinching  or  murmur,  the 
sharpest  trials.  Nothing  outward,  nothing  inward,  shall  agitate  or  control 
him.  The  brightest  and  most  capricious  fancy,  the  most  piercing  and  in- 
quisitive intellect,  the  wildest  and  deepest  imagination ;  the  highest  thrills 
of  joy,  the  bitterest  pangs  of  sorrow :  all  these  are  his,  he  is  not  theirs. 
While  he  moves  every  heart  from  its  steadfastness,  his  own  is  firm  and 
still :  the  words  that  search  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  our  nature,  he  pro- 
nounces with  a  tone  of  coldness  and  equanimity :  in  the  deepest  pathos  he 
weeps  not,  or  his  tears  are  like  water  trickling  from  a  rock  of  adamant.  He 
is  a  king  of  himself  and  of  this  world ;  now  does  he  rule  it  like  a  vulgar  great 
man,  like  Napoleon  or  Charles  the  Twelfth,  by  the  mere  brute  exertion  of 
his  will,  grounded  on  no  principle,  or  on  a  false  one :  his  faculties  and  feel- 
ings are  not  fettered  or  prostrated  under  the  iron  sway  of  Passion,  but  led 
and  guided  in  kindly  union  under  the  mild  sway  of  Eeason ;  as  the  fierce 
primeval  elements  of  Chaos  were  stilled  at  the  coming  of  Light,  and  bound 
together,  under  its  soft  vesture,  into  a  glorious  and  beneficent  Creation."— 
(Cartylt's  Etsays,  p.  90.)— Ed, 


GERMAN    POETRY.  229 

of  nature,  and  most  admirable  when  he  does  not  finish  his 
pictures ;  for  all  his  sketches  contain  the  germ  of  a  fine  fiction, 
but  his  finished  fictions  do  not  always  equally  convey  the  idea 
of  a  good  sketch. 

In  his  elegies,  composed  at  Rome,  we  must  not  look  for 
descriptions  of  Italy :  Goethe  scarcely  does  whatever  is  ex- 
pected from  him,  and  when  there  is  any  thing  pompous  in  an 
idea  it  displeases  him ;  he  wishes  to  produce  effect  by  an  un- 
trodden path  hitherto  unknown  both  to  himself  and  to  the 
reader.  His  elegies  describe  the  effect  of  Italy  on  his  whole 
existence,  that  delirium  of  happiness  resulting  from  the  influ- 
ence of  a  serene  and  beautiful  sky.  He  relates  his  pleasures, 
even  of  the  most  common  kind,  in  the  manner  of  Propertius ; 
and  from  time  to  time  some  fine  recollections  of  that  city, 
which  was  once  the  mistress  of  the  world,  give  an  impulse  to 
the  imagination,  the  more  lively  because  it  was  not  prepared 
for  it. 

He  relates,  that  he  once  met  in  the  Campagna  of  Rome  a 
young  woman  suckling  her  child  and  seated  on  the  remains  of 
an  ancient  column ;  he  wished  to  question  her  on  the  subject 
of  the  ruins  with  which  her  hut  was  surrounded  ;  but  she  was 
ignorant  of  every  thing  concerning  them,  wholly  devoted  to 
the  affections  which  filled  her  soul ;  she  loved,  and  to  her  the 
present  moment  was  the  whole  of  existence. 

We  read  in  a  Greek  author,  that  a  young  girl,  skilful  in  the 
art  of  making  nosegays  of  flowers,  entered  into  a  contest  with 
her  lover,  Pausias,  who  knew  how  to  paint  them.  Goethe  has 
composed  a  charming  idyl  on  that  subject.  The  author  of  that 
idyl  is  also  the  author  of  Werther.  Goethe  has  run  through 
all  the  shades  and  gradations  of  love,  from  the  sentiment  which 
confers  grace  and  tenderness,  to  that  despair  which  harrows  up 
the  soul,  but  exalts  genius. 

After  having  made  himself  a  Greek  in  Pausias,  Goethe  con- 
ducts us  to  Asia  in  a  most  charming  ballad,  called  the  God 
and  the  Bayadere}  An  Indian  deity  (Mahadoeh)  clothes  him- 

1  Baiadera  is  a  Portuguese  wcrd  signifying  a  dancing  woman. — Ed. 


230  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

self  in  a  mortal  form,  in  order  to  judge  of  the  pleasures  and 
pains  of  men  from  his  own  experience.  He  travels  through 
Asia,  observes  both  the  great  and  the  lower  classes  of  people ; 
and  as  one  evening,  on  leaving  a  town,  he  was  walking  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges,  he  is  stopped  by  a  Bayadere,  who  per- 
suades him  to  rest  himself  in  her  habitation.  There  is  so  much 
poetry,  colors  so  truly  oriental  in  his  manner  of  painting  the 
dances  of  this  Bayadere,  the  perfumes  and  flowers  with  which 
she  is  surrounded,  that  we  cannot,  from  our  own  manners, 
judge  of  a  picture  so  perfectly  foreign  ^o  them.  The  Indian 
deity  inspires  this  erring  female  with  :,rue  love,  and  touched 
with  that  return  towards  virtue  which  sincere  affection  should 
always  inspire,  he  resolves  to  purify  the  soul  of  the  Bayadere 
by  the  trials  of  misfortune. 

When  she  awakes,  she  finds  her  'over  dead  by  her  side. 
The  priests  of  Brahma  carry  off  the  lifeless  body  to  consume  it 
on  the  funeral  pile.  The  Bayadere  endeavors  to  throw  her- 
self on  it  with  him  she  loves,  but  is  repulsed  by  the  priests,  be- 
cause, not  being  his  wife,  she  has  no  right  to  die  with  him. 
After  having  felt  all  the  anguish  of  love  and  of  shame,  she 
throws  herself  on  the  pile,  in  spite  of  the  Brahmins.  The 
god  receives  her  in  his  arms ;  he  darts  through  the  flames,  and 
carries  the  object  of  his  tenderness,  now  rendered  worthy  of 
his  choice,  with  him  to  heaven. 

Zelter,  an  original  musician,  has  set  this  romance  to  an  air, 
by  turns  voluptuous  and  solemn,  which  suits  the  words  ex- 
tremely well.  When  we  hear  it,  we  think  ourselves  in  India, 
surrounded  with  all  its  wonders ;  and  let  it  not  be  said,  that  a 
ballad  is  too  short  a  poem  to  produce  such  an  effect.  The 
first  notes  of  an  air,  the  first  verse  of  a  poem,  transports  the 
imagination  to  any  distant  age  or  country ;  but,  if  a  few 
words  are  thus  powerful,  a  few  words  can  also  destroy  the  en- 
chantment. Magicians  formerly  could  perform  or  prevent 
prodigies  by  the  help  of  a  few  magical  words.  It  is  the  same 
with  the  poet ;  he  may  call  up  the  past,  or  make  the  present 
appear  again,  according  as  the  expressions  he  makes  use  of 
are,  or  are  not,  conformable  to  the  time  or  country  which  is 


GERMAN    POETRY.  231 

the  subject  of  his  verse,  according  as  he  observes  or  neglects 
local  coloring,  and  those  little  circumstances  so  ingeniously 
invented,  which,  both  in  fiction  and  reality,  exercise  the  mind 
in  the  endeavor  to  discover  truth  where  it  is  not  specifically 
pointed  out  to  us. 

Another  ballad  of  Goethe's  produces  a  delightful  effect  by 
the  most  simple  means ;  it  is  the  Fisherman.  A  poor  man, 
on  a  summer's  evening,  seats  himself  on  the  bank  of  a  river, 
and,  as  he  throws  in  his  line,  contemplates  the  clear  and  lim- 
pid tide,  which  gently  flows  and  bathes  his  naked  feet.  The 
nymph  of  the  stream  invites  him  to  plunge  himself  into  it ; 
she  describes  to  him  the  delightful  freshness  of  the  water  during 
the  heat  of  summer,  the  pleasure  which  the  sun  takes  in  cool- 
ing itself  at  night  in  the  sea,  the  calmness  of  the  moon  when 
its  rays  repose  and  sleep  on  the  bosom  of  the  stream.  At 
length,  the  fisherman,  attracted,  seduced,  drawn  on,  advances 
near  the  nymph,  and  forever  disappears.  The  story  on  which 
this  ballad  is  founded  is  trifling ;  but  what  is  delightful  in  it, 
is  the  art  of  making  us  feel  the  mysterious  power  which  may 
proceed  from  the  phenomena  of  nature.  It  is  said  there  are 
persons  who  discover  springs,  hidden  under  the  earth,  by  the 
nervous  agitation  which  they  cause  in  them  :  in  German  poe- 
try, we  often  think  we  discover  this  miraculous  sympathy  be- 
tween man  and  the  elements.  The  German  poet  comprehends 
nature  not  only  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  brother ;  and  we  might  al- 
most say,  that  the  bonds  of  family  union  connect  him  with 
the  air,  the  water,  flowers,  trees,  in  short,  with  all  the  primary 
beauties  of  the  creation, 

There  is  no  one  who  has  not  felt  the  undefinable  attraction 
which  we  experience  when  looking  on  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
whether  from  the  charm  of  their  freshness,  or  from  the  ascend- 
ency which  a  uniform  and  perpetual  motion  insensibly  ac- 
quires over  our  transient  and  perishable  existence.  This  bal- 
lad of  Goethe's  admirably  expresses  the  increasing  pleasure  we 
derive  from  contemplating  the  pure  waters  of  a  flowing  stream  : 
the  measure  of  the  rhythm  and  harmony  is  made  to  imitate  the 
inotioi.  of  the  waves,  and  produces  an  analogous  effect  on  the 


232  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

imagination.  The  soul  of  nature  discovers  itself  to  us  in  every 
place,  and  under  a  thousand  different  forms.  The  fruitful 
country  and  the  unpeopled  desert,  the  sea  as  well  as  the  stars, 
are  all  subjected  to  the  same  laws;  and  man  contains  within 
himself  sensations  and  occult  powers,  which  correspond  with  the 
day,  with  the  night,  and  with  the  storm ;  it  is  this  secret  alli- 
ance of  our  being  with  the  wonders  of  the  universe,  which  gives 
to  poetry  its  true  grandeur.  The  poet  knows  how  to  restore 
the  union  between  the  natural  and  the  moral  world  :  his  imagi- 
nation forms  a  connecting  tie  between  the  one  and  the  other.1 

There  is  much  gayety  in  several  of  Goethe's  pieces ;  but  we 
seldom  find  in  them  that  sort  of  pleasantry  to  which  we  have 
been  accustomed :  he  is  sooner  struck  by  the  imagery  of  na- 
ture, than  by  ridiculous  circumstances ;  with  a  singular  in- 
stinct, he  points  out  the  originality  of  animals,  always  new, 
yet  never  varying.  Lilt's  Park  and  the  Wedding  song  in  the 
Old  Castle,  describe  animals,  not  like  men,  in  La  Fontaine's 
manner,  but,  like  fantastic  creatures,  the  sports  of  Nature. 
Goethe  also  finds  in  the  marvellous  a  source  of  pleasantry,  the 
more  gratifying,  because  we  discover  in  it  no  serious  aim. 

A  song,  entitled  the  May  {dan's  Apprentice,  also  deserves  to 
be  mentioned.  The  apprentice  of  a  magician  having  heard 
his  master  mutter  some  magical  words,  by  the  help  of  which 
he  gets  a  broomstick  to  tend  on  him.  recollects  those  words, 
and  commands  the  broomstick  to  go  and  fetch  him  water  from 
the  river,  to  wash  his  house.  The  broomstick  sets  off  and  re- 
turns, brings  one  bucket,  then  another,  and  then  another,  and 
so  on  without  ceasing.  The  apprentice  wants  to  stop  it,  but 
he  has  forgot  the  words  necessary  for  that  purpose :  the 
broomstick,  faithful  to  its  office,  still  goes  to  the  river,  and 
still  drawrs  up  water,  which  is  thrown  on  the  house  at  the  risk 
of  inundating  it.  The  apprentice,  in  his  fury,  takes  an  axe 
and  cuts  the  broomstick  in  two ;  the  two  parts  of  the  stick 


1  Mr.  Lewes'  Life  of  Goethe  contains  no  passage  at  all  approaching  this 
in  truth  and  delicacy  of  poetic  criticism.  Gervinus  himself  has  nothing 
better.— Ed. 


GERMAN    POETRY.  233 

then  become  two  servants  instead  of  one,  and  go  for  water, 
which  they  throw  into  the  apartments,  as  if  in  emulation  of 
each  other,  with  more  zeal  than  ever.  In  vain  the  apprentice 
scolds  these  stupid  sticks ;  they  continue  their  business  with- 
out ceasing,  and  the  house  would  have  been  lost,  had  not  the 
iraster  arrived  in  time  to  assist  his  apprentice,  at  the  same  time 
laughing  heartily  at  his  ridiculous  presumption.  An  awkward 
imitation  of  the  great  secrets  of  art  is  very  well  depicted  in 
this  little  scene. 

We  have  not  yet  spoken  of  an  inexhaustible  source  of  poeti- 
cal effect  in  Germany,  which  is  terror ;  stories  of  apparitions 
and  sorcerers  are  equally  well  received  by  the  populace  and 
by  men  of  more  enlightened  minds :  it  is  a  relic  of  the  north- 
ern mythology — a  disposition  naturally  inspired  by  the  long 
nights  of  a  northern  climate  ;  and  besides,  though  Christianity 
opposes  all  groundless  fears,  yet  popular  superstitions  have 
always  some  sort  of  analogy  to  the  prevailing  religion.  Almost 
every  true  opinion  has  its  attendant  error,  which,  like  a  shadow, 
places  itself  in  the  imagination  at  the  side  of  the  reality  ;  it  is 
a  luxuriance  or  excess  of  belief,  which  is  commonly  attached 
both  to  religion  and  to  history,  and  I  know  not  why  we  should 
disdain  to  avail  ourselves  of  it.  Shakspeare  has  produced 
wonderful  effects  from  the  introduction  of  spectres  and  magic ; 
and  poetry  cannot  be  popular  when  it  despises  that  which  ex- 
ercises a  spontaneous  empire  over  the  imagination.  Genius 
and  taste  may  preside  over  the  arrangement  of  these  tales, 
and  in  proportion  to  the  commonness  of  the  subject,  the  more 
skill  is  required  in  the  manner  of  treating  it :  perhaps  it  is  in 
this  union  alone  that  the  great  force  of  a  poem  consists.  It  is 
probable  that  the  great  events  recorded  in  the  Iliad  and  Odys- 
sey were  sung  by  nurses,  before  Homer  rendered  them  the 
chefs-d'oeuvre  of  the  poetical  art.' 

1  "  The  poetry  of  Goethe  we  reckon  to  be  Poetry,  sometimes  in  the  very 
highest  sense  of  that  word ;  yet  it  is  no  reminiscence,  but  something  actu- 
ally present  and  before  us ;  no  looking  back  into  an  antique  Fairy-land, 
divided  by  impassable  abysses  from  the  real  world  as  it  lies  about  us  and 
within  us;  but  a  looking  round  upon  that  real  world  itself,  now  rendered 


MADAME   DE    STAEl^'s    GERM  AST. 

Of  all  German  writers,  Burger  has  made  the  best  use  of  this 
1  vein  of  superstition  which  carries  us  so  far  into  the  recesses  of 
the  heart.  His  romances  are  therefore  well  known  through- 
out Germany.  Lenore,  which  is  most  generally  admired,  is 

*t  o  i/ 

not,  I  believe,  translated  into  French,  or,  at  least,  it  would  be 
very  difficult  to  relate  it  circumstantially  either  in  our  prose  or 
verse.  A  young  girl  is  alarmed  at  not  hearing  from  her  lover 


holier  to  our  eyes,  and  once  more  become  a  solemn  temple,  where  the 
spirit  of  Beauty  still  dwells,  and,  under  new  emblems,  to  be  worshipped 
as  of  old.  With  Goethe,  the  mythologies  of  bygone  days  pass  only  for 
what  they  are ;  we  have  no  witchcraft  or  magic,  in  the  common  accepta- 
tion, and  spirits  no  longer  bring  with  them  airs  from  heaven  or  blasts  from 
hell ;  for  Pandemonium  and  the  steadfast  Empyrean  have  faded  away, 
since  the  opinions  which  they  symbolized  no  longer  are.  Neither  does  he 
bring  his  heroes  from  remote  Oriental  climates,  or  periods  of  Chivalry,  or 
any  section  either  of  Atlantis  or  the  Age  of  Gold,  feeling  that  the  reflex  of 
these  things  is  cold  and  faint,  and  only  hangs  like  a  cloud-picture  in  the 
distance,  beautiful  but  delusive,  and  which  even  the  simplest  know  to  be 
delusion.  The  end  of  Poetry  is  higher ;  she  must  dwell  in  Eeality,  and 
become  manifest  to  men  in  the  forms  among  which  they  live  and  move. 
And  this  is  what  we  prize  in  Goethe,  and  more  or  less  in  Schiller  and  the 
rest,  all  of  whom,  each  in  his  own  way,  are  writers  of  a  similar  aim.  The 
coldest  skeptic,  the  most  callous  worldling,  sees  not  the  actual  aspects  of 
life  more  sharply  than  they  are  here  delineated :  the  nineteenth  century 
stands  before  us  in  all  its  contradiction  and  perplexity, — barren,  mean,  and 
baneful,  as  we  have  all  known  it ;  yet  here  no  longer  mean  or  barren,  but 
enamelled  into  beauty  in  the  poet's  spirit ;  for  its  secret  significance  is  laid 
open,  and  thus,  as  it  were,  the  life-giving  fire  that  slumbers  in  it  is  called 
forth,  and  flowers  and  foliage,  as  of  old,  are  springing  on  its  bleakest  wil- 
dernesses and  overmantling  its  sternest  cliffs.  For  these  men  have  not 
only  the  clear  eye,  but  the  loving  heart.  They  have  penetrated  into  the 
mystery  of  Nature ;  after  long  trial,  they  have  been  initiated ;  and,  to  un- 
wearied endeavor,  Art  has  at  last  yielded  her  secret ;  and  thus  can  the 
Spirit  of  our  Age,  embodied  in  fair  imaginations,  look  forth  on  us,  earnest 
and  full  of  meaning,  from  their  works.  As  the  first  and  indispensable 
condition  of  good  poets,  they  are  wise  and  good  men :  much  they  have 
seen  and  suffered,  and  they  have  conquered  all  this  and  made  it  all  their 
own ;  they  have  known  life  in  its  heights  and  depths,  and  mastered  it  in 
both,  and  can  teach  others  what  it  is,  and  how  to  lead  it  rightly.  Their 
minds  are  as  a  mirror  to  us,  where  the  perplexed  image  of  our  own  being 
is  reflected  back  in  soft  and  clear  interpretation.  Here  mirth  and  gravity 
are  blended  together ;  wit  rests  on  deep,  devout  wisdom,  as  the  greensward 
with  its  flowers  must  rest  on  the  rock,  whose  foundations  reach  downward 
to  the  centre.  In  a  word,  they  are  believers ;  but  their  faith  is  no  sallow 
plant  of  darkness ;  it  is  green  and  flowery,  for  it  grows  in  the  sunlight. 


GERMAN    POETRY.  235 

who  is  gone  to  the  army ;  peace  is  made,  and  the  soldiers 
return  to  their  habitations.  Mothers  again  meet  their  sons, 
sisters  their  brothers,  and  husbands  their  wives ;  the  warlike 
trumpet  accompanies  the  songs  of  peace,  and  joy  reigns  in 
every  heart.  Lenore  in  vain  surveys  the  ranks  of  the  soldiers ; 
she  sees  not  her  lover,  and  no  one  can  tell  her  what  has  be- 
come of  him.  She  is  in  despair ;  her  mother  attempts  to  calm 
her;  but  the  youthful  heart  of  Lenore  revolts  against  the 
stroke  of  affliction,  and  in  its  frenzy  she  accuses  Providence. 
From  the  moment  in  which  the  blasphemy  is  uttered,  we  are 
sensible  that  the  story  is  to  have  something  fatal  in  it,  and  this 
idea  keeps  the  mind  in  constant  agitation. 

At  midnight,  a  knight  stops  at  the  door  of  Lenore's  house ; 
she  hears  the  neighing  of  the  horse  and  the  clinking  of  the 
spurs ;  the  knight  knocks,  she  goes  down  and  beholds  her  lover. 
He  tells  her  to  follow  him  instantly,  having  not  a  moment  to 
lose,  he  says,  before  he  returns  to  the  army.  She  presses  for- 
ward; he  places  her  behind  him  on  his  horse,  and  sets  off 
with  the  quickness  of  lightning.  During  the  night  he  gallops 
through  barren  and  desert  countries  ;  his  youthful  companion 
is  filled  with  terror,  and  continually  asks  him  why  he  goes  so 
fast ;  the  knight  still  presses  on  his  horse  by  his  hoarse  and 
hollow  cries,  and  in  a  low  voice  says,  "  The  dead  ride  quick, 
the  dead  ride  quick !"  Lenore  answers,  "  Ah !  leave  the  dead 


And  this  faith  is  the  doctrine  they  have  to  teach  us, — the  sense  which, 
under  every  noble  and  graceful  form,  it  is  their  endeavor  to  set  forth : 

'As  all  nature's  thousand  changes 

But  one  changeless  God  proclaim, 
So  in  Art's  wide  kingdoms  ranges 

One  sole  meaning,  still  the  same; 
This  is  Truth,  eternal  Reason, 

Which  from  Beauty  takes  its  dress, 
And,  serene  through  time  and  season, 
Stands  for  aye  in  loveliness.' 

Such  indeed  is  the  end  of  Poetry  at  all  times ;  yet  in  no  recent  literature 
known  to  us,  except  the  German,  has  it  been  so  far  attained — nay,  perhaps, 
so  much  as  consciously  and  steadfastly  attempted." — (Garlyle't  Essays,  p. 
28.)-£d. 


236  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

in  peace !"  but  whenever  she  addresses  to  him  any  anxious 
question,  he  repeats  the  same  appalling  words. 

In  approaching  the  church,  where  he  says  he  is  carrying  her 
to  complete  their  union,  the  frosts  of  winter  seem  to  change 
nature  herself  into  a  frightful  omen  :  priests  carry  a  coffin  in 
great  pomp,  and  their  black  robes  train  slowly  on  the  snow, 
the  winding-sheet  of  the  earth  ;  Lenore's  tenor  increases,  and 
her  lover  cheers  her  with  a  mixture  of  irony  and  carelessness 
which  makes  one  shudder.  All  that  he  says  is  oronounced 
with  a  monotonous  precipitation,  as  if  already,  in  his  language^ 
the  accents  of  life  were  no  longer  heard  ;  he  promises  to  bring 
her  to  that  narrow  and  silent  abode  where  their  union  was  to 
be  accomplished.  We  see,  at  a  distance,  the  church-yard  by 
the  side  of  the  church  :  the  knight  knocks,  and  the  door  opens ; 
he  pushes  forward  with  his  horse,  making  him  pass  between 
the  tombstones ;  he  then,  by  degrees,  loses  the  appearance  of 
a  living  being,  is  changed  to  a  skeleton,  and  the  earth  opens 
to  swallow  up  both  him  and  his  mistress. 

I  certainly  do  not  flatter  myself  that  I  have  been  able,  in 
this  abridged  recital,  to  give  a  just  idea  of  the  astonishing 
merit  of  this  romance  •/  all  the  imagery,  all  the  sounds  con- 
nected with  the  situation  of  the  soul,  are  wonderfully  expressed 
by  the  poetry ;  the  syllables,  the  rhymes,  all  the  art  of  lan- 
guage is  employed  to  excite  terror.  The  rapidity  of  the  horses 
pace  seems  more  solemn  and  more  appalling  than  even  the  slow- 
ness of  a  funeral  procession.  The  energy  with  which  the  knight 
quickens  his  course,  that  petulance  of  death,  causes  an  inexpress- 
ible emotion  ;  and  we  feel  ourselves  carried  off  by  the  phantom,  as 
well  as  the  poor  girl  whom  he  drags  with  him  into  the  abyss. 

There  are  four*  English  translations  of  this  tale  of  Lenore, 
but  the  best  beyond  comparison  is  that  of  Wm.  Spencer,3  who 
of  all  English  poets  is  best  acquainted  with  the  true  spirit  of 

1  His  romances  are  in  verse. —Ed. 

1  There  are  now  many  more.  We  know  of  nine,  and  there  are  doubtless 
many  that  we  are  ignorant  of. — Ed. 

*  Mr.  Spencer's  volume  is  more  famous  for  the  illustrations  of  Lady 
Diana  Beauclerc,  than  for  any  thing  of  his  own. — Ed. 


GERMAN    POETKT.  237 

foreign  languages.  The  analogy  between  the  English  and 
German,  allows  a  complete  transfusion  of  the  originality  of 
style  and  versification  of  Burger ;  and  we  not  only  find  in  the 
translation,  the  same  ideas  as  in  the  original,  but  also  the  same 
sensations ;  and  nothing  is  more  necessary  than  this  to  convey 
the  true  knowledge  of  a  literary  production.  It  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  obtain  the  same  result  in  French,  where  nothing  strange 
or  odd  seems  natural 

Burger  has  written  another  romance,  less  celebrated,  but  also 
extremely  original,  entitled  the  Wild  Huntsman.  Followed  by 
his  servants  and  a  large  pack  of  hounds,  he  set  out  for  the 
chase  on  a  Sunday,  just  as  the  village  bell  announces  divine 
service.  A  knight  in  white  armor  presents  himself,  and  con- 
jures him  not  to  profane  the  Lord's  day ;  another  knight, 
arrayed  in  black  armor,  makes  him  ashamed  of  subjecting 
himself  to  prejudices,  which  are  suitable  only  to  old  men  and 
children  :  the  huntsman  yields  to  these  evil  suggestions ;  he 
sets  off,  and  reaches  the  field  of  a  poor  widow ;  she  throws 
herself  at  his  feet,  imploring  him  not  to  destroy  her  harvest  by 
trampling  down  her  corn  with  his  attendants ;  the  knight  in 
white  armor  entreats  the  huntsman  to  listen  to  the  voice  of 
pity  ;  the  black  knight  laughs  at  a  sentiment  so  puerile  ;  the 
huntsman  mistakes  ferocity  for  energy,  and  his  horses  trample 
on  the  hope  of  the  poor  and  the  orphan.  At  length  the  stag, 
pursued,  seeks  refuge  in  the  hut  of  an  old  hermit ;  the  hunts- 
man wishes  to  set  it  on  fire  in  order  to  drive  out  his  prey ;  the 
hermit  embraces  his  knees,  and  endeavors  to  soften  the  fero- 
cious being  who  thus  threatens  his  humble  abode :  for  the 
last  time,  the  good  genius,  under  the  form  of  the  white  knight, 
again  speaks  to  him  ;  the  evil  genius,  under  that  of  the  black 
knight  triumphs;  the  huntsman  kills  the  hermit,  and  is  at 
once  changed  into  a  phantom,  pursued  by  his  own  dogs,  who 
seek  to  devour  him.  This  story  is  derived  from  a  popular 
superstition  :  it  is  said,  that  at  midnight,  in  certain  seasons  of 
the  year,  a  huntsman  is  seen  in  the  clouds,  just  over  the  for- 
est where  this  event  is  supposed  to  have  passed,  and  that  he 
is  pursued  by  a  furious  pack  of  hounds  till  daybreak. 


238  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

What  is  truly  fine  in  this  poem  of  Biirger's,  is  his  description 
of  the  ardent  will  of  the  huntsman;  it  was  at  first  innocent,  as 
are  all  the  faculties  of  the  soul ;  but  it  becomes  more  and  more 
depraved,  as  often  as  he  resists  the  voice  of  conscience  and 
yields  to  his  passions.  Ilis  headstrong  purpose  was  at  first 
only  the  intoxication  of  power ;  it  soon  becomes  that  of  guilt, 
and  the  earth  can  no  longer  sustain  him.  The  good  and  evil 
inclinations  of  men  are  well  characterized  by  the  white  and 
black  knights ;  the  words,  always  the  same,  which  are  pro- 
nounced by  the  white  knight  to  stop  the  career  of  the  hunts- 
man, are  also  very  ingeniously  combined.  The  ancients,  and 
the  poets  of  the  middle  ages,  were  well  acquainted  with  the 
kind  of  terror  caused  in  certain  circumstances  by  the  repe- 
tition of  the  same  words ;  it  seems  to  awaken  the  sentiment 
of  inflexible  necessity.  Apparitions,  oracles — all  supernatural 
powers,  must  be  monotonous ;  -what  is  immutable  is  uniform  ; 
and  in  certain  fictions  it  is  a  great  art  to  imitate  by  words  that 
solemn  fixedness  which  imagination  assigns  to  the  empire  of 
darkness  and  of  death. 

We  also  remark  in  Burger  a  certain  familiarity  of  expres- 
sion, which  does  not  lessen  the  dignity  of  the  poetry,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  singularly  increases  its  effect.  When  we  succeed 
in  exciting  both  terror  and  admiration  without  weakening 
either,  each  of  those  sentiments  is  necessarily  strengthened  by 
the  union :  it  is  mixing,  in  the  art  of  painting,  what  we  see 
continually  with  what  we  never  see ;  and  from  what  we  know, 
we  are  led  to  believe  what  astonishes  us. 

Goethe  has  also  made  trial  of  his  talents  in  those  subjects 
which  are  at  the  same  time  terrifying  both  to  children  and 
men ;  but  he  has  treated  them  with  a  depth  of  thought  that 
leaves  us  also  a  wide  field  for  reflection.  I  will  endeavor  to 
give  an  account  of  one  of  his  poems  on  apparitions  which  is 
the  most  admired  in  Germany ;  it  is  called  the  Bride  of  Corinth. 
I  certainly  do  not  mean  in  any  respect  to  defend  this  fiction, 
either  as  considered  in  itself,  or  in  its  tendency  ;  but  it  seems 
to  me  scarcely  possible  not  to  be  struck  with  the  warmth  of 
imagination  which  it  indicates. 


GERMAN    POETRY.  239 

Two  friends,  one  of  Athens  and  the  other  of  Corinth,  had 
resolved  to  unite  their  son  and  daughter  to  each  other.  The 
young  man  sets  out  for  Corinth  to  see  her  who  had  been  prom- 
ised to  him,  and  whom  he  had  never  yet  beheld  :  it  was  at  the 
time  when  Christianity  was  first  established.  The  family  of 
the  Athenian  adhered  to  the  old  religion,  but  that  of  the  Co- 
rinthian had  adopted  the  new  faith  ;  and  the  mother,  during 
a  lingering  illness,  had  devoted  her  daughter  to  the  altar.  The 
youngest  sister  is  destined  to  fill  the  place  of  the  eldest,  who 
is  thus  consecrated  to  religion. 

The  young  man  arrives  late  at  the  house  ;  all  the  family  had 
retired  to  rest;  the  servants  bring  some  supper  to  his  apart- 
ment, and  leave  him  alone ;  but  he  is  soon  afterwards  joined 
by  a  very  singular  guest :  he  sees,  advancing  to  the  middle  of 
the  room,  a  young  girl  clothed  in  a  veil  and  a  white  robe,  her 
forehead  bound  with  a  black  and  gold  ribbon ;  and  when  she 
perceives  the  young  man  she  draws  back  with  timidity,  and, 
lifting  her  white  hands  to  heaven,  cries  out : ' 

"  Is  a  stanger  here,  and  nothing  told  me  ? 

Am  I  then  forgotten  even  in  name  ? 
Ah  !  'tis  thus  within  my  cell  they  hold  me, 
And  I  now  am  cover' d  o'er  with  shame  !" 

She  attempts  to  retire,  but  the  young  man  holds  her  back ; 
he  learns  that  she  is  the  person  who  was  destined  to  be  his 
wife.  Their  fathers  had  sworn  to  unite  them,  and  therefore 
every  other  vow  appeared  to  him  without  effect. 

"  '  Maiden— darling  '     Stay,  0  stay  !'  and,  leaping 

From  the  coucl ,  before  her  stands  the  boy  : 
'  Ceres — Bacchus,  here  their  gifts  are  heaping, 

/And  thou  bringest  Amor's  gentle  joy  ! 
Why  with  terror  pale  ? 
Sweet  one.  let  us  hail 
These  bright  gods — their  festive  gifts  employ.'  " 

The  young  man  conjures  his  youthful  companion  to  yield 
herself  to  his  wishes. 

1  We  use  the  translation  of  Professor  Aytoun  and  Theo  lore  Martin. — Ed. 


24:0  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

"  Oh,  no — no  !     Young  stranger,  come  not  nigh  me  : 

Joy  is  not  for  me,  nor  festive  cheer. 
Ah!  such  bliss  may  ne'er  be  tasted  by  me, 
Since  my  mother,  in  fantastic  fear, 
By  long  sickness  bow'd, 
To  Heaven's  service  vow'd 
Me,  and  all  the  hopes  that  warm'd  me  here. 

"They  have  left  our  hearth,  and  left  it  lonely—- 
The old  gods,  that  bright  and  jocund  train. 
One,  unseen,  in  heaven,  is  worehipp'd  only, 
And  upon  the  cross  a  Saviour  slain  ; 
Sacrifice  is  here, 
Not  of  lamb  nor  steer, 
But  of  human  woe  and  human  pain. 


' '  But,  alas !  these  limbs  of  mine  would  chill  thee  : 
Love  !  they  mantle  not  with  passion's  glow  ; 

Thou  wouldst  be  afraid, 

Didst  thou  find  the  maid 
Thou  hast  chosen,  cold  as  ice  or  snow." 

At  midnight,  which  is  called  the  hour  of  spectres,  the  young 
girl  seems  more  unconstrained ;  she  eagerly  drinks  wine  of  the 
color  of  blood,  like  that  which  is  taken  by  the  ghosts  in  the 
Odyssey  to  renew  their  lost  memory ;  but  she  obstinately  re- 
fuses to  taste  a  bit  of  bread  :  she  gives  a  chain  of  gold  to  him 
whom  she  was  to  have  married,  and  asks  in  return  a  lock  of 
his  hair :  the  young  man,  charmed  with  the  beauty  of  his  com- 
panion, presses  her  with  transport  in  his  arms,  but  he  feels  no 
heart  beat  responsive  against  his  bosom  ;  her  limbs  are  frozen. 

'  Round  her  waist  his  eager  arms  he  bended, 

With  the  strength  that  youth  and  love  inspire  ; 

'  Wert  thou  even  from  the  grave  ascended, 
I  could  warm  thee  well  with  my  desire !'  " 

And  then  begins  a  scene  as  extraordinary  as  the  frenzied 
imagination  can  possibly  conceive, — a  mixture  of  love  and 
terror,  a  formidable  union  of  life  and  death.  There  is,  as  it 
were,  a  funereal  voluptuousness  in  this  picture  where  love 


GEEMAN    POETRY.  241 

forms  an  alliance  with  the  grave,  where  beauty  itself  seems 
only  a  terrifying  apparition.1 

At  length  the  mother  arrives,  and  convinced  that  one  of  her 
slaves  has  been  introduced  to  the  stranger,  she  gives  way  to 
her  just  indignation  ;  but  immediately  the  young  girl  increases 
in  size,  till  like  a  shadow  she  reaches  the  vaulted  ceiling,2  and 
then  reproaches  her  mother  with  having  caused  her  death  by 
obliging  her  to  take  the  veil : 

"Mother !  mother  !  wherefore  thus  deprive  me 

Of  such  joy  as  I  this  night  have  known  ? 
Wherefore  from  these  warm  embraces  drive  me  ? 
Was  I  waken' d  up  to  meet  thy  frown  ? 
Did  it  not  suffice 
That,  in  virgin  guise, 
To  an  early  grave  you  brought  me  down  ? 

"  Fearful  is  the  weird  that  forced  me  hither, 

From  the  dark-heap'd  chamber  where  I  lay  ; 
Powerless  are  your  drowsy  anthems,  neither 
Can  your  priests  prevail,  howe'er  they  pray. 
Salt  nor  lymph  can  cool, 
Where  the  pulse  is  full ; 
Love  must  still  burn  on,  though  wrapp'd  in  clay. 

' '  To  this  youth  my  early  troth  was  plighted, 
While  yet  Venus  ruled  within  the  land  ; 
Mother  !  and  that  vow  ye  falsely  slighted, 
At  your  new  and  gloomy  faith's  command. 
But  no  god  will  hear, 
If  a  mother  swear 
Pure  from  love  to  keep  her  daughter's  hand. 

"Nightly  from  my  narrow  chamber  driven, 

Come  I  to  fulfil  my  destined  part, 
Him  to  seek  to  whom  my  troth  was  given, 
And  to  draw  the  life-blood  from  his  heart. 

1  "An  awful  and  undefined  horror,"  says  Mrs.  Austin,  "  breathes  through- 
out this  poem.    In  the  slow  and  measured  rhythm  of  the  verse,  and  the 
pathetic  simplicity  of  the  diction,  there  is  a  solemnity  and  stirring  spell 
which  chains  the  feelings  like  a  deep  mysterious  strain  of  music." — E(L 
2  "  And  her  form  upright, 
As  with  ghostly  might, 
Long  and  slowly  rises  from  the  bed."  — Ed. 
VOL.  I.— 11 


242  MADAME   DE   STAEI/S    GEKMA>T. 

He  hath  served  my  will ; 
More  I  yet  must  kill, 
For  another  prey  I  now  depart. 

"  Fair  young  man  !  thy  thread  of  life  is  broken, 

Human  skill  can  bring  no  aid  to  thee. 
There  thou  hast  my  chain — a  ghastly  token — 
And  this  lock  of  thine  I  take  with  me. 
Soon  must  thou  decay, 
Soon  wilt  thou  be  gray, 
Dark  although  to-night  thy  tresses  be ! 

"  Mother !  hear,  oh  hear  my  last  entreaty  ! 

Let  the  funeral-pile  arise  once  more  ; 
Open  up  my  wretched  tomb  for  pity, 
And  in  llames  our  souls  to  peace  restore. 
When  the  ashes  glow, 
When  the  fire-sparks  flow, 
To  the  ancient  gods  aloft  we  soar." 

Without  doubt,  a  pure  and  chastened  taste  will  find  many 
things  to  blame  in  this  piece ;  but  when  it  is  read  in  the  origi- 
nal, it  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the  art  with  which  every 
word  is  made  to  produce  an  increasing  degree  of  terror ;  every 
word  indicates,  without  explaining,  the  astonishing  horror  of 
this  situation.  A  history,  of  which  nothing  in  nature  could 
have  given  the  idea,  is  related  in  striking  and  natural  details, 
as  if  the  subject  of  it  had  really  taken  place ;  and  curiosity  is 
constantly  excited,  without  our  being  willing  to  sacrifice  a 
single  circumstance,  in  order  to  satisfy  it  the  sooner.1 

1  We  are  happy  to  borrow  from  Professor  Aytoun  and  Mr.  Martin  the 
following  account  of  the  legend  on  which  "  The  Bride  of  Corinth"  is 
founded : 

"  The  legend  on  which  this  poem  is  based  is  to  be  found  in  the  treatise 
Tlepl  Oaviiaoluv,  by  Phlegon  of  Tralles,  a  freedman  of  the  Emperor  Adrian, 
where  it  forms  the  first  of  the  series  of  marvels  recorded  by  that  singular 
writer.  The  opening  of  the  story  is  lost,  but  its  nature  is  made  sufficiently 
obvious  by  what  remains. 

"  '  She  passed,'  writes  Phlegon, '  to  the  door  of  the  stranger's  room,  and 
there,  by  the  shimmer  of  the  lamp,  beheld  the  damsel  seated  by  the  side 
of  Machates.  At  this  marvellous  phenomenon  she  was  unable  to  com- 
mand herself,  and,  hastening  to  the  damsel's  mother,  called  with  a  loud 
voice  to  Charito  and  Demostratus  to  arise  and  go  with  her  to  their  daugh- 
ter ;  for  that  she  had  come  back  to  life,  and  was  even  now  closeted  with 


GERMAN   POETRY.  243 

This  piece,  nevertheless,  is  the  only  one  among  the  detached 
poems  of  celebrated  German  authors  against  which  French 
taste  can  find  any  thing  to  object :  in  all  the  others  the  two 
nations  appear  to  agree.  In  the  verses  of  Jacobi  we  almost 

the  stranger  in  his  room.  Hearing  this  strange  announcement,  Charito, 
between  fright  at  the  intelligence  and  the  bewilderment  of  the  nurse,  was 
at  first  distracted ;  then,  remembering  the  daughter  she  had  lost,  she  be- 
gan to  weep ;  and  in  the  end,  thinking  the  old  woman  crazed,  she  com- 
manded her  to  betake  herself  to  rest.  To  this  the  nurse  rejoined  by 
reproaches,  insisting  that  she  herself  was  in  her  right  mind,  but  that  the 
mother  was  unwilling  from  pure  fear  to  behold  her  own  daughter;  and  so 
at  last  Charito,  partly  constrained  by  the  nurse,  partly  impelled  by  curios- 
ity, repaired  to  the  door  of  the  stranger's  apartment.  But  as  a  second 
message  had  been  required  to  persuade  her,'a  considerable  space  of  time 
had  in  the  mean  while  elapsed,  so  that  by  the  time  she  reached  the  cham 
ber  they  were  both  in  bed.  Looking  in  at  the  doorway,  she  thought  she 
recognized  the  dress  and  features  of  her  daughter ;  but  being  unable  to 
satisfy  herself  of  the  truth,  she  conceived  it  best  to  make  no  disturbance. 
Moreover,  she  hoped,  by  rising  in  the  morning  betimes,  to  take  the  damsel 
by  surprise ;  or,  even  if  she  should  fail  in  this,  then  she  thought  to  put 
Machates  to  question  as  to  the  matter,  when  of  a  surety,  seeing  how  mo- 
mentous it  was,  he  would  not  speak  that  which  was  untrue.  And  so  she 
withdrew  noiselessly  from  the  door.  By  daybreak,  however,  she  found 
the  damsel  already  gone,  peradventure  through  chance,  peradventure 
according  to  the  will  of  some  god.  Disconcerted  by  her  so  sudden  with- 
drawal, the  mother  narrated  to  her  young  guest  all  that  she  had  seen,  and, 
embracing  his  knees,  besought  him  to  tell  her  the  truth,  and  to  conceal 
nothing.  Upon  this  the  youth  was  at  first  smitten  with  consternation  and 
sore  confusion ;  at  length,  however,  with  difficulty  he  mentioned  her  name, 
Philinnion — recounted  how  she  had  come  to  him  on  the  first  occasion — 
with  what  fondness  she  had  encountered  him,  and  how  she  had  said  that 
her  visit  was  made  without  the  knowledge  of  her  parents.  Furthermore, 
to  confirm  his  tale,  he  opened  a  chest  and  showed  a  certain  gift  presented 
to  him  by  the  damsel — to  wit,  a  golden  ring,  and  also  a  scarf  from  her 
bosom,  which  she  had  left  behind  her  on  the  previous  night.  On  seeing 
these  proofs  Charito  shrieked,  rent  her  robes  in  twain,  tore  the  veil  from 
her  head,  and,  throwing  herself  upon  the  ground,  kissed  the  well-known 
tokens,  and  broke  forth  anew  into  lamentations.  When  now  the  guest 
had  reflected  on  what  had  transpired,  and  beheld  them  all  weeping  and 
wailing  immoderately,  as  though  they  were  now  about  for  the  first  time  to 
lay  the  damsel  in  the  tomb,  he  began,  all  confounded  though  he  was,  to 
speak  words  of  comfort  to  them,  and  vowed  to  give  them  intimation  if  she 
should  return.  Tranquillized  by  these  assurances,  Charito  returned  to  her 
chamber,  after  conjuring  the  youth  to  deal  truly  with  his  promise.  When 
night  closed  in,  and  the  hour  had  come  at  which  Philinnion  was  wont  to 
visit  Jiirn,  the  others  held  themselves  in  readiness  for  the  tidings  of  her 


MADAME   DE    STAELS    GERMANY. 

discover  the  brilliancy  and  lightness  of  Grcssct.  Matthisson 
has  given  to  descriptive  poetry  (the  features  of  which  are  fre- 
quently too  vague)  the  character  of  a  picture  as  striking  in  its 
coloring  as  in  its  resemblance.  The  charm  Avhich  pervades 

arrival.  And  truly  come  she  did ;  and  when  she  had  entered  at  the  accus- 
tomed time  and  seated  herself  upon  the  bed,  Machates  unconcernedly  took 
his  place  beside  her,  longing  nevertheless  with  all  his  heart  to  come  at  the 
bottom  of  the  business ;  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  think  that  it 
was  a  dead  maiden  with  whom  he  had  holden  intercourse,  seeing  that  she 
returned  so  punctually  always  at  the  same  time,  and  ate  and  drank  with 
him.  Therefore  did  he  mistrust  the  assurances  of  the  nurse  and  of  the 
parents,  holding  rather  to  the  opinion  that  thieves  had  broken  into  and 
plundered  the  tomb,  and  sold  the  garments  and  the  ornament  of  gold  to 
the  father  of  the  damsel,  who  had  in  this  wise  made  resort  unto  him. 
Wishing  to  be  assured  of  the  truth,  therefore,  he  privily  called  his  ser- 
vants and  sent  them  to  the  parents.  Demostratus  and  Charito  hastened 
with  all  speed  to  the  apartment,  and  beholding  the  damsel  there,  they  were 
for  a  time  struck  dumb  with  amazement  at  the  wondrous  apparition ;  but, 
recovering  themselves,  they  ran  forward  with  a  great  cry,  and  fell  upon 
their  daughter's  neck.  Then  spoke  Philinnion  to  them  in  this  wise :  "  Oh, 
mother  and  father,  unjust  and  ungentle  are  ye,  in  that  you  grant  me  not  to 
tarry  unmolested  with  this  stranger  but  for  three  days  at  my  father's  house. 
Now,  therefore,  because  of  your  busy  curiosity,  shall  ye  once  again  be 
made  to  mourn.  But  for  me,  I  return  unto  my  appointed  place;  for  hither 
have  I  come  not  without  the  intervention  of  the  gods."  When  she  had  so 
spoken,  she  fell  back  dead  once  more,  and  lay  there  stretched  out  upon 
the  bed.' 

"  The  utmost  excitement,  says  the  chronicler,  was  occasioned  in  the 
household  and  the  city  by  this  singular  event.  The  family-vault  was 
searched,  when  all  the  bodies  were  found  in  their  places,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Philinnion's ;  and  where  that  had  lain,  a  steel  ring  belonging  to 
the  guest  was  discovered,  and  a  parcel-gilt  goblet,  both  of  which  she  had 
received  from  her  companion  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit.  By  the 
advice  of  an  augur  of  great  reputation,  the  body  was  burnt  outside  the  city 
walls — an  expiatory  sacrifice  was  made  to  Hermes  and  the  Eumenides — 
lustrations  were  performed  in  the  temples — sacrifices  oifered  up  for  the 
emperor  and  the  public  weal ;  and,  as  an  appropriate  consummation  to  the 
whole,  the  youth  Machates  laid  violent  hands  upon  himself. 

"  It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  dexterously  Goethe  has  availed  himself 
of  the  incidents  narrated  with  so  much  circumstantiality  in  this  striking 
legend,  and  what  additional  interest  he  has  given  it,  by  marking  so  dis- 
tinctly the  period  when  the  old  mythological  faith  was  passing  away  under 
the  influence  of  the  Christian  creed.  With  all  reverence  for  the  genius  of 
Goethe,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  he  had  strong  Pagan  tendencies,  and 
these  were  never  so  forcibly  exhibited  as  in  the  composition  of  this  won- 
derful poem.  It  is  said  that  it  cost  him  only  two  days'  labor,  .and,  when 


GERMAN    POETRY.  245 

the  poetry  of  Sails  makes  us  love  its  author  as  If  he  were  our 
friend.  Tiedge  is  a  moral  poet,  whose  writings  lead  the  soul 
to  the  purest  devotional  feelings.  We  should  still,  in  short, 
have  to  mention  a  crowd  of  other  poets,  if  it  were  possible  to 
point  out  every  name  deserving  of  applause,  in  a  country 
where  poetry  is  so  natural  to  all  cultivated  minds. 

A.  W.  Schlegel,  whose  literary  opinions  have  made  so  much 
noise  in  Germany,  has  not,  in  any  of  his  poems,  allowed  him- 
self the  slightest  esxpression  which  can  attract  censure  from  the 
most  severe  taste.  His  elegies  on  the  death  of  a  young  per- 
son ;  his  stanzas  on  the  union  of  the  church  with  the  fine  arts ; 
his  elegy  on  Rome,  are  written  throughout  with  delicacy  and 
dignity.  The  two  specimens  I  am  about  to  give  of  his  poetry 
will  convey  but  a  very  imperfect  idea  of  it;  but  they  will 
serve,  at  least,  to  render  the  character  of  the  poet  better  known. 
The  sonnet,  entitled  Attachment  to  the  World,  appears  to  me 
charming.1 

' '  Oft  will  the  soul  her  wings  unfold, 
Invigorated  by  contemplation  of  purer  things  ; 
To  her  seems,  in  the  narrow  circle  she  traverses, 
Her  doing  vain,  and  her  knowing  illusive. 

"  She  feels  deeply  an  irresistible  longing 
For  higher  worlds,  for  freer  spheres  of  action, 
And  believes,  at  the  close  of  her  earthly  career, 
First  lifted  is  the  curtain  revealing  brighter  scenes. 

"  Yet  let  death  touch  her  body,  so  that  she  must  leave  it, 
Then  she  shudders,  and  looks  back  with  longing 
On  earthly  pleasures  and  mortal  companions : 

"  As  once  Proserpine,  from  Enna's  meads 
In  Pluto's  arms  borne  off,  childish  in  her  complaints, 
For  the  flowers  wept,  which  from  her  bosom  fell." 


completed,  required  no  corrections — an  effort  which  deserves  to  be  record- 
ed, for  few  poems  in  any  language  have  been  so  complete  and  absolutely 
perfect  in  their  structure  as  '  The  Bride  of  Corinth.' " — Ed. 

>  Again  we  give  a  literal  translation  from  the  German,  not  being  able  tc 
content  ourselves  with  a  second-hand  version  through  the  French. — Ed. 


246  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

The  following  piece  of  verses  must  lose  even  more  by  a 
translation  than  the  sonnet ;  it  is  called  the  Melodies  of  Life : 
the  swan  is  placed  in  opposition  to  the  eagle, — the  former  as 
Ike  emblem  of  contemplative  existence,  the  latter  as  the  image 
of  active  existence  ;  the  rhythm  of  the  verse  changes  when  the 
swan  speaks,  and  when  the  eagle  answers  her ;  and  the  strains 
of  both  are  nevertheless  comprised  in  the  same  stanza  united 
by  the  rhyme ;  the  true  beauties  of  harmony  are  also  found  in 
this  piece,  not  imitative  harmony,  but  the  internal  music  of  the 
soul.  Our  emotion  discovers  it  without  having  recourse  to 
reflection  ;  and  reflecting  genius  converts  it  into  poetry. 

THE  SWAN. 

"  In  the  waters  is  pass'd  my  tranquil  life, 
It  traces  only  a  slight  furrow  that  vanishes, 
And  never  fail  me  in  the  watery  mirror 
The  curving  neck  and  rounded  form. 

THB  EAGLE. 

"  I  dwell  in  the  rocky  cliffs, 
I  sail  in  the  stormy  air, 
Trusting  to  the  beating  wings, 
In  chase  and  battle  and  peril. 

THE  SWAN. 

"  Me  delights  the  blue  of  the  sky  serene, 
Me  sweetly  intoxicates  the  spicewort's  perfume, 
When  I,  in  the  glow  of  the  evening- red, 
Bock  my  feather' d  breast. 

THE  EAGLE. 

"  I  triumph  in  tempests, 
When  they  root  up  the  forests, 
I  ask  the  lightning,  whether  it  kills, 
With  glad  annihilating  pleasure. 

THE  SWAN. 

"  By  a  glance  from  Apollo  invited, 
Dare  I  bathe  in  harmony's  tide, 
At  his  feet  reposing,  when  the  songs 
Resound  in  Tempe's  vale. 


GERMAN    POKTIiY.  £4.  7 


THE  EAGLE. 

"  I  enthrone  myself  by  Jupiter's  seat ; 
He  winks  and  I  bring  him  the  lightning, 
Then  drop  I  in  sleep  my  wings 
Over  his  ruling  sceptre. 

THE  SWAN. 

"With  the  blessed  power  of  the  gods  penetrated, 
Have  I  myself  in  Leda's  bosom  entwined  ; 
Flatteringly  caress' d  me  her  tender  hands, 
As  she  her  sense  in  rapture  lost. 

THE  EAGLE. 

"  I  came  out  of  the  clouds  like  an  arrow, 
Tore  him  from  his  feeble  companions  : 
I  bore  in  my  talons  the  youthful 
Ganymede  to  Olympus  on  high. 

THE  SWAN. 

"  So  bore  she  friendly  natures, 
Helena  and  you,  ye  Dioscuri, 
Wild  stars,  whose  brother- virtue, 
Changing,  shadow-world  and  heaven  share. 

THE  EAGLE. 

"  Now  hands  the  nectar-beeker 
The  youth  to  drinkers  immortal ; 
Never  brown'd  is  the  fair  young  cheek, 
As  endlessly  time  hurries  on. 

THE  SWAN. 

"  Prophetically  contemplate  I  oft  the  stars, 
In  the  water-mirror  the  deep-arch'd  immensity, 
And  me  draws  an  inner  tender  longing 
Towards  my  home  in  a  heavenly  land. 

THE  EAGLE. 

"  I  spread  my  wings  with  joy, 
In  my  youth,  towards  the  deathless  sun, 
Can  never  to  the  dust  myself  accustom, 
I  am  akin  to  the  gods. 


2  ±8  MADAME  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY. 

THE  SWAN. 

"  Willingly  yields  to  death  a  peaceful  life  ; 
When  the  web  of  existence  is  unwoven, 
Loos' d  is  the  tongue  :  melodiously  celebrates 
Each  breath  the  holy  moment. 

THE  EAGLE. 

"  The  torch  of  the  dead  makes  young  again :» 
A  blooming  phoenix,  rises 
The  soul  free  and  imveil'd, 
And  greets  its  god-like  fortune.2 

It  is  a  circumstance  worthy  of  observation,  that  national 
taste  in  general  differs  much  more  in  the  dramatic  art  than  in 
any  other  branch  of  literature.  We  will  analyze  the  cause  of 
this  difference  in  the  following  chapters ;  but  before  we  enter 
on  the  examination  of  the  German  theatre,  some  general  obser- 
vations on  taste  appear  to  me  necessary.  I  shall  not  con- 
sider it  abstractedly  as  an  intellectual  faculty ;  several  writers, 
and  Montesquieu  in  particular,  have  exhausted  this  subject.  I 
will  only  point  out  why  literary  taste  is  understood  in  so  dif- 
ferent a  manner  by  the  French  and  the  nations  of  Germany. 


'  Among  the  ancients,  an  eagle  rising  from  the  funeral  pile  was  an  em- 
blem of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  not  tmfrequently  also  that  of 
deification. 

2  We  have  again  been  obliged  to  give  a  literal,  line-by-line  version,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  shadow  of  a  shadow  in  a  retranslation  from  a  French 
rendering. — Ed. 


TASTE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

OF   TASTE. 

THOSE  who  think  themselves  in  possession  of  taste  are  more 
proud  of  it  than  those  who  believe  that  they  possess  genius. 
Taste  is  in  literature  what  bon  ton  is  in  society ;  we  con- 
siJer  it  as  a  proof  of  fortune  and  of  birth,  or  at  least  of  the 
hi>its  which  are  found  in  connection  with  them  ;  while  genius 
may  spring  from  the  head  of  an  artisan,  who  has  never  had 
any  intercourse  with  good  company.  In  every  country  where 
there  is  vanity,  taste  will  be  placed  in  the  highest  rank  of  quali- 
fications, because  it  separates  different  classes,  and  serves  as  a 
rallyiag-point  to  all  the  individuals  of  the  first  class.  In  every 
country  where  the  power  of  ridicule  is  felt,  taste  will  be  reck- 
oned as  one  of  the  first  advantages ;  for,  above  all  things,  it 
teaches  us  what  we  ought  to  avoid.  A  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  and  of  propriety,  peculiarly  belongs  to  taste ;  and  it  is 
an  excellent  armor  to  ward  off  the  blows  of  the  various  con 
tending  kinds  of  self-love,  which  we  have  to  deal  with;  in 
short,  it  may  so  happen,  that  a  whole  nation  shall,  with  respect 
to  other  nations,  form  itself  into  an  aristocracy  of  good  taste ; 
and  this  may  be  applied  to  France,  where  the  spirit  of  society 
reigned  in  so  eminent  a  manner,  that  it  had  some  excuse  for 
such  a  pretension. 

But  taste,  in  its  application  to  the  fine  arts,  differs  extremely 
from  taste  as  applied  to  the  relations  of  social  life ;  when  the 
object  is  to  force  men  to  grant  us  a  reputation,  ephemeral  as 
our  own  lives,  what  we  omit  doing  is  at  least  as  necessary  as 
what  we  do ;  for  the  higher  orders  of  society  are  naturally  so 
hostile  to  all  pretension,  that  very  extraordinary  advantages 
are  requisite  to  compensate  that  of  not  giving  occasion  to  the 


250  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

world  to  speak  about  us.  Taste  in  poetry  depends  on  nature, 
and,  like  nature,  should  be  creative  ;  the  principles  of  this  taste 
are  therefore  quite  different  from  those  which  depend  on  our 
social  relations. 

It  is  by  confounding  these  two  kinds  of  taste  that  we  find 
such  opposite  judgments  formed  on  subjects  of  literature;  the 
French  judge  of  the  fine  arts  by  the  rules  of  social  fitness  and 
propriety,  and  the  Germans  judge  of  these  as  they  would  of 
the  fine  arts :  in  the  relations  of  society  we  must  study  how 
to  defend  ourselves,  but  in  those  of  poetry,  we  should  yield 
ourselves  up  without  reserve.  If  you  consider  surrounding 
objects  as  a  man  of  the  world,  you  will  not  be  sensible  to  the 
charms  of  nature ;  if  you  survey  them  as  an  artist,  you  will 
lose  that  tact  which  society  alone  can  give.  If  we  are  to  sib- 
ject  the  arts  to  the  regulations  of  good  company,  the  Freach 
alone  are  truly  capable  of  it ;  but  greater  latitude  of  composi- 
tion is  necessary,  in  order  strongly  to  affect  the  imagination 
and  the  soul.  I  know  it  may  be  objected  to  me,  and  with 
reason,  that  our  three  best  dramatic  authors  are  elevated  to 
the  most  sublime  height,  without  offending  any  established 
rule.  Some  men  of  genius,  reaping  a  field  before  unculti- 
vated, have  indeed  rendered  themselves  illustrious  in  spite 
of  the  difficulties  they  had  to  conquer ;  but  is  not  the  cessa- 
tion of  all  progress  in  the  art,  since  that  time,  a  strong  proof 
that  there  are  too  many  obstacles  in  the  road  which  they  fol- 
lowed ? 

"Good  taste  in  literature  is  in  pome  respects  like  order 
under  despotism ;  it  is  of  consequence  that  we  should  know  at 
what  price  we  purchase  it."1  In  a  political  point  of  view,  M. 
Keeker  said  :  The  utmost  degree  of  liberty  should  be  granted 
which  is  consistent  with  order.  I  would  change  the  maxim, 
by  saying,  that  in  literature,  we  should  have  all  the  taste  which 
is  consistent  with  genius ;  for  if  in  a  state  of  society  the  chief 
object  be  order  and  quietness,  that  which  is  of  most  impor- 
tance in  literature  is,  on  the  contrary,  interest,  curiosity,  and 

1  Suppressed  by  authority. 


TASTE. 


that  sort  of  emotion  which  taste  alone  would  frequently  dis- 
approve.1 

A  treaty  of  peace  might  be  proposed  between  the  different 
modes  of  judgment  adopted  by  artists  and  men  of  the  world, 


1  "  Taste,  if  it  mean  any  thing  but  a  paltry  connoisseurship,  must  mean 
a  general  susceptibility  to  truth  and  nobleness ;  a  sense  to  discern,  and  a 
heart  to  love  and  reverence  all  beauty,  order,  goodness,  wheresoever,  or  iu 
whatsoever  forms  and  accompaniments  they  are  to  be  seen.  This  surely 
implies,  as  its  chief  condition,  not  any  given  external  rank  or  situation,  but 
a  finely  gifted  mind,  purified  into  harmony  with  itself,  into  keenness  and 
justness  of  vision;  above  all,  kindled  into  love  and  generous  admira- 
tion. .... 

"  We  venture  to  deny  that  the  Germans  are  defective  in  taste ;  even  as  a 
nation,  as  a  public,  taking  one  thing  with  another,  we  imagine  they  may 
stand  comparison,  with  any  of  their  neighbors ;  as  writers,  as  critics,  they 
may  decidedly  court  it.  True,  there  is  a  mass  of  dulness,  awkwardness, 
and  false  susceptibility  in  the  lower  regions  of  their  literature ;  but  is  not 
bad  taste  endemical  in  such  regions  of  every  literature  under  the  sun  ? 
Pure  Stupidity,  indeed,  is  of  a  quiet  nature,  and  content  to  be  merely 
Btupid.  But  seldom  do  we  find  it  pure ;  seldom  unadulterated  with  some 
tincture  of  ambition,  which  drives  it  into  new  and  strange  metamorphoses. 
Here  it  has  assumed  a  contemptuous,  trenchant  air,  intended  to  represent 
superior  tact  and  a  sort  of  all- wisdom ;  there  a  truculent  atrabilious  scowl, 
which  is  to  stand  for  passionate  strength ;  now  we  have  an  outpouring  of 
tumid  fervor ;  now  a  fruitless,  asthmatic  hunting  after  wit  and  humor. 
Grave  or  gay,  enthusiastic  or  derisive,  admiring  or  despising,  the  dull  man 
would  be  something  which  he  is  not  and  cannot  be.  Shall  we  confess, 
that,  of  these  too  common  extremes,  we  reckon  the  German  error  consid- 
erably the  more  harmless,  and,  in  our  day,  by  far  the  more  curable  ?  Of 
tmwise  admiration  much  may  be  hoped,  for  much  good  is  really  in  it :  but 
unwise  contempt  is  itself  a  negation ;  nothing  comes  of  it,  for  it  is  nothing. 

"  To  judge  of  a  national  taste,  however,  we  must  raise  our  view  from  its 
transitory  modes  to  its  perennial  models ;  from  the  mass  of  vulgar  writers, 
who  blaze  out  and  are  extinguished  with  the  popular  delusion  which  they 
flatter,  to  those  few  who  are  admitted  to  shine  with  a  pure  and  lasting 
lustre ;  to  whom,  by  common  consent,  the  eyes  of  the  people  are  turned, 
as  to  its  lodestar  and  celestial  luminaries.  Among  German  writers  of  thi§ 
stamp,  we  would  ask  any  candid  reader  of  them,  let  him  be  of  what  coun- 
try or  what  creed  he  might,  whether  bad  taste  struck  him  as  a  prevailing 
characteristic.  Was  Wieland's  taste  uncultivated  ?  Taste,  we  should  say, 
and  taste  of  the  very  species  which  a  disciple  of  the  Negative  School  would 
call  the  highest,  formed  the  great  object  of  his  life,  the  perfection  he 
unweariedly  endeavored  after,  and,  more  than  any  other  perfection,  has 
attained.  The  most  fastidious  Frenchman  might  read  him  with  admiration 
of  his  merely  French  qualities.  And  is  not  Klopstock,  with  his  clear 
enthusiasm,  hk  azure  purity,  and  heavenly,  if  still  somewhat  cold  and 


252  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

by  Germans  and  Frenchmen.  The  French  ought  to  abstain 
from  condemning  even  a  violation  of  rule,  if  an  energetic 
thought  or  a  true  sentiment  can  be  pleaded  in  its  excuse.  The 
Germans  ought  to  prohibit  all  that  is  offensive  to  natural  taste, 


lunar  light,  a  man  of  taste  ?  His  Messias  reminds  us  oftener  of  no  other 
poets  than  of  Virgil  and  Eacine.  But  it  is  to  Lessing  that  an  Englishman 

would  turn  with  the  readiest  affection With  Lessing  and 

Klopstock  might  be  joined,  in  this  respect,  nearly  every  one,  we  do  not 
say  of  their  distinguished,  but  even  of  their  tolerated  contemporaries. 
The  two  Jacobis,  known  more  or  less  in  all  countries,  are  little  known 
here,  if  they  are  accused  of  wanting  literary  taste.  These  are  men,  whether 
as  thinkers  or  poets,  to  be  regarded  and  admired  for  their  mild  and  lofty 
wisdom,  the  devoutness,  the  benignity  and  calm  grandeur  of  their  philo- 
sophical views.  In  such,  it  were  strange  if  among  so  many  high  merits, 
this  lower  one  of  a  just  and  elegant  style,  which  is  indeed  their  natural 
and  even  necessary  product,  had  been  wanting.  "We  recommend  the  elder 
Jacobi  no  less  for  his  clearness  than  for  his  depth ;  of  the  younger,  it  may 
be  enough  in  this  point  of  view  to  say,  that  the  chief  praisers  of  his  earlier 
poetry  were  the  French.  Neither  are  Hamann  and  Mendelsohn,  who  could 
meditate  deep  thoughts,  defective  in  the  power  of  uttering  them  with  pro- 
priety. The  Phcedan  of  the  latter,  in  its  chaste  precision  and  simplicity 
of  style,  may  almost  remind  us  of  Xenophon.  Socrates,  to  our  mind,  has 
spoken  in  no  modern  language  so  like  Socrates,  as  here,  by  the  lips  of  this 
wise  and  cultivated  Jew. 

"  Among  the  poets  and  more  popular  writers  of  the  time,  the  case  is  the 
same :  Utz,  Gellert,  Cramer,  Ramler,  Kleist,  Hagedorn,  Rabener,  Gleim, 
and  a  multitude  of  lesser  men,  whatever  excellencies  they  might  want, 

certainly  are  not  chargeable  with  bad  taste The  same  thing 

holds,  in  general,  and  with  fewer  drawbacks,  of  the  somewhat  later  and 
more  energetic  race,  denominated  the  Gottinyen  School,  in  contradistinction 
from  the  Saxon,  to  which  Rabener,  Cramer,  and  Gellert  directly  belonged, 
and  most  of  those  others  indirectly.  llolty,  Burger,  the  two  Stolbergs, 
are  men  whom  Bossu  might  measure  with  his  scale  and  compasses  as 
strictly  as  he  pleased.  Of  Herder,  Schiller,  Goethe,  we  speak  not  here ; 
they  are  men  of  another  stature  and  form  of  movement,  whom  Bossu's 
scale  and  compasses  could  not  measure  without  difficulty,  or  rather  not  at 
all.  To  say  that  such  men  wrote  with  taste  of  this  sort,  were  saying  little ; 
for  this  forms  not  the  apex,  but  the  basis,  in  their  conception  of  style, — a 
quality  not  to  be  paraded  as  an  excellence,  but  to  be  understood  as  indis- 
pensable, as  there  by  necessity,  and  like  a  thing  of  course. 

"  In  truth,  for  it  must  be  spoken  out,  our  opponents  are  so  widely  astray 
in  this  matter,  that  their  views  of  it  are  not  only  dim  and  perplexed,  but 
altogether  imaginary  and  delusive.  It  is  proposed  to  School  the  Germans 
in  the  Alphabet  of  taste ;  and  the  Germans  are  already  busied  with  their 
Accidence.  Far  from  being  behind  other  nations  in  the  practice  or  science 
of  Criticism,  it  is  a  fact,  for  which  we  fearlessly  refer  to  all  competent 


TASTE.  253 

all  that  retraces  images  repulsive  to  our  feelings  :  no  philo- 
sophical theory,  however  ingenious  it  may  be,  can  compensate 
for  this  defect ;  as,  on  the  contrary,  no  established  rule  in  liter- 
atute  can  prevent  the  effect  of  involuntary  emotions.  In  vain 
do  the  most  intelligent  German  writers  contend,  that,  in  order 
to  understand  the  conduct  of  Lear's  daughters  towards  their 
father,  it  is  necessary  to  show  the  barbarity  of  the  times  in 
which  they  lived,  and  therefore  tolerate  the  action  of  the 
Duke  of  Cornwall,  who,  excited  by  Regan,  treads  out  the  eye 
of  Gloucester  with  his  heel  on  the  stage  :  our  imaginations  will 
always  revolt  at  such  a  sight,  and  will  demand  other  means  of 
attaining  the  great  beauties  of  composition.  But,  were  the 
French  to  direct  the  utmost  force  of  their  literary  criticisms 
against  the  prediction  of  the  witches  in  Macbeth,  the  ghost  of 
Banquo,  etc.,  we  should  not  the  less  feel,  with  the  most  lively 
emotion,  the  terrific  effect  which  it  is  their  endeavor  to  pro- 
scribe. 

We  cannot  teach  good  taste  in  the  arts  as  we  can  bon  ton  in 
society ;  for  the  knowledge  of  bon  ton  assists  us  to  hide  the 
points  in  which  we  fail,  while  in  the  arts  it  is  above  all  things 
necessary  to  possess  a  creative  spirit.  Good  taste  cannot  sup- 
ply the  place  of  genius  in  literature,  for  the  best  proof  of  taste, 
when  there  is  no  genius,  would  be,  not  to  write  at  all.  If  we 
dared  to  speak  our  opinion  on  this  subject,  perhaps  we  should 
say,  that  in  France  there  are  too  many  curbs  for  coursers  that 
have  so  little  mettle,  and  that  in  Germany,  great  literary  inde- 
pendence has  not  yet  produced  effects  proportionably  striking 
and  brilliant. 


judges,  that  they  are  distinctly,  and  even  considerably,  in  advance.  Wo 
state  what  is  already  known  to  a  groat  part  of  Europe  to  be  true.  Criti- 
cism has  assumed  a  new  form  in  Germany ;  it  proceeds  on  other  principles, 
and  proposes  to  itself  a  higher  aim."— (CarlyUs  Essays,  p.  20  et  «eq.)—J£d. 


254  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

OF   THE    DRAMATIC    ART. 

THE  theatre  sxercises  a  powerful  influence  over  men  ;  a 
tragedy  which  exalts  the  soul,  a  comedy  which  paints  manners 
and  characters,  acts  upon  the  mind  of  the  people  almost  like  a 
real  event ;  but  in  order  to  obtain  any  considerable  success 
upon  the  stage,  it  is  necessary  for  the  poet  to  have  studied  the 
public  which  he  addresses,  and  the  motives,  of  every  descrip- 
tion, on  which  its  opinion  is  founded.  The  knowledge  of  man- 
kind is  even  equally  essential  to  the  dramatic  author  with 
imagination  itself;  he  must  touch  sentiments  of  general  inter- 
est without  losing  sight  of  the  particular  relations  which  influ- 
ence his  spectators ;  a  theatrical  performance  is  literature  in 
action,  and  the  genius  which  it  demands  is  so  rare  only  be- 
cause it  exhibits  the  astonishing  combination  of  the  perfect 
knowledge  of  circumstances  with  poetical  inspiration.  Noth- 
ing then  would  be  more  absurd  than  an  attempt  to  impose  on 
all  nations  the  same  dramatic  system ;  when  the  object  is  to 
adapt  a  universal  art  to  the  taste  of  each  particular  country, 
an  immortal  art  to  the  manners  of  the  passing  moment,  most 
important  modifications  are  unavoidable;  and  from  thence 
proceeds  such  a  diversity  of  opinions  as  to  what  constitutes 
dramatic  talent :  in  all  other  branches  of  literature  men  agree 
more  easily. 

It  cannot,  I  think,  be  denied,  that  the  French  are  the  most 
expert  nation  in  the  world  in  the  combination  of  theatrical  ef- 
fects; they  bear  away  the  prize  from  all  others,  likewise,  in 
the  dignity  of  situations  and  of  tragic  style.  But,  even  while 
we  acknowledge  this  double  superiority,  we  may  experience 
more  powerful  emotions  from  less  regular  works ;  the  concep- 
tion is  often  more  bold  and  striking  in  the  foreign  drama,  and 


THE    DRAMATIC   ART.  WJOD 

often  comprehends  I  know  not  what  power  within  itself  which 
speaks  more  intimately  to  our  heart,  and  touches  more  nearly 
those  sentiments  by  which  we  have  been  personally  affected. 

As  the  French  are  easily  tired,  so  they  avoid  prolixity  in 
every  thing.  When  the  German  attends  the  theatre,  he,  in 
general,  sacrifices  only  a  dull  game  at  cards,  the  monotonous 
chances  of  which  hardly  serve  to  fill  the  vacant  hour ;  he  asks 
then  nothing  more  than  to  seat  himself  peaceably  at  the  play, 
and  grants  the  author  all  the  time  that  he  wants  to  prepare 
his  events,  and  develop  his  characters ;  the  impatience  of  the 
Frenchman  would  never  tolerate  such  delay. 

The  German  dramas  usually  resemble  the  works  of  the  an- 
cient painters  :  their  physiognomies  are  fine,  expressive,  medi- 
tative ;  but  all  the  figures  are  on  the  same  plane,  sometimes 
confused,  sometimes  placed,  the  one  by  the  side  of  the  other, 
as  in  bas-reliefs,  without  being  grouped  together  before  the 
eyes  of  the  spectator.  The  French  think,  and  with  reason,  that 
the  theatre,  like  painting,  ought  to  be  subjected  to  the  laws  of 
perspective.  If  the  Germans  were  expert  in  the  dramatic  art, 
they  would  be  equally  so  in  all  the  rest ;  but  they  are  in  every 
thing  incapable  of  address,  even  innocent ;  their  understanding 
is  penetrating  in  a  straight  line  ;  the  fine  and  impressive  of  a 
positive  kind  are  subject  to  their  dominion ;  but  relative  beau- 
ties, those  which  depend  on  the  knowledge  of  cause  and  effect, 
and  the  rapidity  of  expedients,  are,  generally  speaking,  beyond 
the  reach  of  their  faculties. 

It  is  singular,  that,  of  the  two  people,  the  French  are  those 
who  exact  the  most  sustained  gravity  in  the  tone  of  tragedy ; 
but  it  is  precisely  because  the  French  are  more  accessible  to 
pleasantry,  that  they  refuse  to  admit  it,  while  nothing  deranges 
the  imperturbable  seriousness  of  the  Germans  :  it  is  always  by 
its  general  effect  that  they  judge  of  a  theatrical  piece,  and 
they  wait  till  it  is  finished  before  they  either  condemn  or  ap- 
plaud it.  The  impressions  of  the  French  are  more  ready ;  and 
they  would  in  vain  be  forewarned  that  a  comic  scene  is  de- 
signed to  set  off  a  tragic  situation, — they  would  turn  the  first 
into  ridicule  without  waiting  for  the  other ;  every  detail  must 


256  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

for  them  be  of  equal  interest  with  the  whole  :  they  will  not 
allow  credit  for  an  instant  to  the  pleasure  which  they  demand 
from  the  fine  arts. 

The  difference  between  the  French  and  the  German  theatre 
may  be  explained  by  reference  to  the  national  characters  ;  but 
to  these  natural  diversities  must  be  added  some  points  of  sys- 
tematic opposition,  of  which  it  is  important  to  ascertain  the 
cause.  What  I  have  said  already  on  the  subjects  of  classical 
and  romantic  poetry,  is  also  applicable  to  the  theatre.  The 
tragedies  of  mythological  foundation  are  of  a  distinct  nature 
from  the  historical ;  subjects  drawn  from  fable  were  so  well 
known,  the  interest  which  they  inspired  so  universal,  that  it 
was  enough  to  announce  them,  to  strike  the  imagination  at 
once.  That  which  is  eminently  poetical  in  the  Greek  trage- 
dies, the  intervention  of  the  gods  and  the  action  of  fatality, 
renders  their  progress  more  easy ;  the  detail  of  motives,  the 
development  of  characters,  the  diversity  of  facts,  become  less 
necessary  when  the  event  is  explained  by  supernatural  power ; 
every  thing  is  cut  short  by  a  miracle.  The  action  too  of  the 
Greek  tragedy  is  astonishingly  simple  ;  the  greater  part  of  the 
events  are  foreseen  and  even  announced  at  the  first  opening ; 
a  Greek  tragedy  is,  in  short,  no  other  than  a  religious  ceremo- 
ny. The  spectacle  was  presented  in  honor  of  the  gods ;  and 
in  hymns,  interrupted  by  dialogue  and  recitation,  were  painted 
sometimes  merciful,  sometimes  avenging,  deities,  but  always 
Destiny  hovering  over  the  life  of  man.  When  these  same 
subjects  were  transferred  to  the  French  theatre,  our  great  poets 
bestowed  upon  them  more  of  variety ;  they  multiplied  inci- 
dents, contrived  surprises,  and  drew  closer  the  knot.  It  was 
necessary  in  some  sort  to  supply  the  want  of  that  national  and 
religious  interest  which  the  Greeks  felt  and  we  cannot  expe- 
rience ;  yet,  not  content  with  adding  circumstances  to  the 
simplicity  of  the  Greek  action,  we  have  lent  to  their  person- 
ages our  own  manners  and  sentiments,  our  modern  conduct, 
and  modern  gallantry ;  and  it  is  on  that  account,  that  so  great 
a  number  of  foreigners  are  unable  to  conceive  the  admiration 
with  which  our  chefs-d'oeuvre  inspire  us.  In  fact,  when  they 


THE   DRAMATIC   AKT.  257 

are  beard  in  another  language,  stripped  of  the  magic  beauty 
of  style,  one  is  surprised  at  the  little  emotion  they  produce, 
and  the  inconsistencies  they  display ;  for  that  which  accords 
neither  with  the  age  nor  with  the  national  manners  of  the  per- 
sonages represented,  what  is  it  but  inconsistency  ?  Is  nothing 
ridiculous  but  that  which  is  unlike  ourselves  ? 

Those  pieces  of  which  the  subjects  are  derived  from  Greece, 
lose  nothing  by  the  severity  of  our  dramatic  rules ;  but,  would 
we  taste,  like  the  English,  the  pleasure  of  possessing  an  his- 
torical theatre,  of  being  interested  by  our  recollections,  or 
touched  by  our  religious  feelings,  how  would  it  be  possible  rig- 
idly to  conform  at  once  to  the  three  unities,  and  to  that  sort 
of  pomp  which  is  become  a  law  of  our  tragic  poetry  ? 

The  question  of  the  three  unities  is  one  which  has  been  so 
often  agitated,  that  one  hardly  dares  at  present  to  talk  of  it ; 
but,  of  all  the  three,  there  is  but  one  of  importance,  the  unity 
of  action,  and  the  others  can  never  be  considered  but  as  subor- 
dinate to  that.  Now  if  the  truth  of  the  action  is  resigned  to 
the  puerile  necessity  of  keeping  the  scene  unchanged,  and  con- 
fining it  to  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours,  to  impose  such  ne- 
cessity, is  to  subject  the  Genius  of  the  Drama  to  a  torture  sim- 
ilar to  that  of  acrostics — a  torture  which  sacrifices  the  substance 
to  the  form. 

Of  all  our  great  tragic  poets,  Voltaire  has  most  frequently 
treated  modern  subjects.  To  excite  emotion,  he  has  drawn 
his  resources  from  religion  and  chivalry,  and  whoever  is  sin- 
cere, must,  I  think,  allow  that  Alzire,  Zaire,  and  Tancrede, 
cause  more  tears  to  flow  than  all  the  Greek  and  Koman  cKefs- 
cFceuvre  of  our  stage.  Dubelloy,  with  a  talent  very  inferior, 
has  nevertheless  attained  to  the  art  of  awakening  French  rec- 
ollections in  a  French  theatre ;  and,  even  though  he  could  not 
write,  his  pieces  make  one  feel  an  interest  similar  to  that 
which  the  Greeks  must  have  experienced  when  they  saw  their 
own  historical  deeds  represented  before  their  eyes.  What  an 
advantage  may  not  genius  derive  from  such  a  disposition  ?  And 
yet  there  are  hardly  any  events  of  our  era,  of  which  the  action 
can  be  comprised  in  one  day,  or  in  the  same  place ;  the  diver- 


258  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

sity  jf  facts  which  is  superinduced  by  a  more  complicated  so- 
cial order,  the  delicacies  of  sentiment  which  are  inspired  by  a 
more  tender  religion ;  in  short,  the  truth  of  manner  which 
must  be  observed  in  pictures  more  nearly  resembling  ourselves, 
require  a  greater  latitude  in  dramatic  composition. 

A  recent  example  may  be  cited  of  the  difficulty  of  conform- 
ing, in  subjects  drawn  from  modern  history,  to  our  dramatic 
orthodoxy.  The  Templiers  of  M.  Raynouard  is  certainly  one 
of  the  pieces  most  .deserving  of  praise  that  have  appeared  for 
a  great  length  of  time  ;  yet  what  is  more  strange  than  the  ne- 
cessity which  the  author  has  imagined  himself  under  of  repre- 
senting the  whole  order  of  Templars  as  accused,  judged,  con- 
demned, and  burned,  in  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours !  The 
revolutionary  tribunals  were  expeditious;  but  whatever  might 
have  been  their  atrocious  inclination,  they  never  were  able  to 
proceed  so  rapidly  as  a  French  tragedy.  I  might  point  out 
the  inconvenience  attending  the  unity  of  time  not  less  demon- 
strably  in  almost  all  our  tragedies  taken  from  modern  history ; 
but  I  have  chosen  the  most  remarkable  only,  in  order  to  make 
these  inconveniences  the  more  conspicuous. 

One  of  the  most  sublime  expressions  ever  heard  on  the  stage 
occurs  in  this  noble  tragedy.  In  the  last  scene  it  is  related 
that  the  Templars  are  singing  psalms  at  the  stake ;  a  messen- 
ger is  sent  to  convey  to  them  the  pardon  which  the  king  had 
resolved  to  bestow — 

"  Mais  il  n'dtait  plus  temps,  les  chants  avaient  cesse"." 
"  It  was  too  late — the  holy  song  had  ceased." 

It  is  thus  the  poet  gives  us  to  understand  that  these  generous 
martyrs  have  just  perished  in  the  flames.  In  what  pagan  trag- 
edy can  be  found  the  expression  of  such  a  sentiment  ?  And 
why  should  the  French  be  deprived  at  their  theatre  of  all  that 
is  truly  in  harmony  with  themselves,  their  ancestors,  and  their 
belief? 

The  French  consider  the  unity  of  time  and  place  as  an  in- 
dispensable condition  of  theatrical  illusion ;  foreigners  make 
this  illusion  consist  in  the  dilineation  of  characters,  in  the  truth 


THE   DRAMATIC   AET.  259 

of  language,  and  the  exact  observation  of  the  manners  of  the 
age  and  country  which  they  design  to  paint.  We  must  prop- 
erly understand  the  meaning  of  this  expression,  Illusion,  when 
applied  to  the  arts.  Since  we  consent  to  believe  that  actors 
separated  from  ourselves  by  a  few  boards  are  Greek  heroes 
doad  three  thousand  years  ago,  it  is  very  certain  that  what  we 
call  illusion  is  not  the  imagination,  that  what  we  behold  really 
exists ;  a  tragedy  can  only  appear  to  us  with  the  form  of  truth 
by  means  of  the  emotion  which  it  inspires.  Now  if,  accord- 
ing to  the  nature  of  the  circumstances  represented,  the  change 
of  place  and  the  supposed  prolongation  of  time  add  to  this 
emotion,  the  illusion  thereby  becomes  the  more  lively. 

It  is  complained  that  the  finest  tragedies  of  Voltaire,  Zaire 
and  Tancrede,  are  founded  on  misunderstandings ;  but  how  do 
otherwise  than  have  resource  to  the  means  of  intrigue,  when 
the  developments  are  considered  as  taking  effect  in  so  short  a 
space  ?  The  dramatic  art  then  becomes  a  difficulty  worth  van- 
quishing; and  to  make  the  greatest  events  pass  naturally 
through  so  many  obstacles,  requires  a  dexterity  similar  to  that 
of  jugglers,  who  cause  the  objects  which  they  present  to  the 
spectator  to  vanish  from  his  sight. 

Historical  subjects  accommodate  themselves  still  less  than 
those  of  invention  to  the  conditions  imposed  upon  our  writers ; 
that  tragic  etiquette  which  is  thought  necessary  on  our  theatre 
is  frequently  opposed  to  the  new  beauties  of  which  pieces  taken 
from  modern  history  would  be  susceptible. 

There  is  in  the  manners  of  chivalry  a  simplicity  of  language, 
a  naivete  of  sentiment,  full  of  charms ;  but  neither  those 
charms,  nor  that  pathos  which  results  from  the  contrast  of 
common  circumstances  with  strong  impressions,  can  be  admit- 
ted into  our  tragedies :  they  require,  throughout,  dignified  sit- 
uations ;  and  yet  the  picturesque  interest  of  the  middle  ages 
is  entirely  owing  to  that  diversity  of  scenes  and  characters, 
from  which  the  romances  of  the  Troubadours  have  drawn  ef- 
fects so  touching. 

The  pomp  of  Alexandrines  is  a  still  greater  obstacle  than 
even  the  routine  of  good  taste,  to  any  change  in  the  form  and 


260  MADAME   DE    8TAEI/S    GERMANY. 

substance  of  the  French  tragedies  :  it  cannot  be  said  in  an  Al- 
exandrine verse  that  one  comes  in  or  goes  out,  that  one  sleeps 
or  wakes,  without  seeking  some  poetical  turn  by  which  to  ex- 
press it ;  and  numberless  sentiments  and  effects  are  banished 
from  the  theatre,  not  by  the  rules  of  tragedy,  but  by  the  very 
exigencies  of  the  verse.  Racine  is  the  only  French  writer  who, 
in  the  scene  between  Joas  and  Athalie,  has  once  ventured  to 
sport  with  these  difficulties ;  he  has  managed  to  give  a  sim- 
plicity equally  noble  and  natural  to  the  language  of  a  child  : 
but  this  admirable  effort  of  an  unparalleled  genius  does  not 
prevent  the  multiplication  of  artificial  difficulties  from  being 
too  frequently  an  obstacle  to  the  most  happy  inventions.  • 

M.  Benj.  Constant,  in  the  so  justly  admired  preface  to  his 
tragedy  of  Walstein,  has  remarked  that  the  Germans  painted 
characters,  the  French  only  passions,  in  their  dramatic  pieces. 
To  dilineate  characters,  it  is  necessary  to  abandon  the  majes- 
tic tone  which  is  exclusively  admitted  into  French  tragedy ; 
for  it  is  impossible  to  make  known  the  faults  and  qualities  of  a 
man,  but  by  presenting  him  under  different  aspects  :  in  nature, 
the  vulgar  often  mixes  with  the  sublime,  and  sometimes  re- 
lieves its  effect :  in  short,  the  true  action  of  a  character  cannot 
be  represented  but  in  a  space  of  time  somewhat  considerable, 
and  in  twenty-four  hours  there  is  no  room  for  any  thing  but  a 
catastrophe.  It  will  perhaps  be  contended,  that  catastrophes 
are  more  suitable  to  the  theatre  than  the  minute  shades  of 
character ;  the  emotion  excited  by  lively  passions  pleases  the 
greater  part  of  the  spectators  more  than  the  attention  required 
for  the  observation  of  the  human  heart.  The  national  taste 
alone  can  decide  upon  these  different  dramatic  systems ;  but 
it  is  justice  to  acknowledge,  that  if  foreigners  have  a  different 
conception  of  the  theatrical  art  from  ourselves,  it  is  neither 
through  ignorance  nor  barbarism,  but  in  consequence  of  pro- 
found reflections  which  are  worthy  of  being  examined. 

Shakspeare,  whom  they  choose  to  call  a  barbarian,  has,  per- 
haps, too  philosophical  a  spirit,  too  subtle  a  penetration,  for 
the  instantaneous  perception  of  the  theatre ;  he  judges  charac- 
ters with  the  impartiality  of  a  superior  being,  and  sometimes 


THE   DRAMATIC   ART.  261 

represents  them  with  an  irony  almost  Machiavelian ;  his  com- 
positions have  so  much  depth,  that  the  rapidity  of  theatrical  ac- 
tion makes  us  lose  a  great  part  of  the  ideas  which  they  con- 
tain :  in  this  respect,  his  pieces  deserve  more  to  be  read  than 
to  be  seen.  By  the  very  force  of  his  imagination,  Shakspeare 
often  suffers  his  action  to  grow  cool,  and  the  French  under- 
stand much  better  how  to  paint  their  characters  as  well  as 
their  decorations  with  those  striking  colors  which  produce  ef- 
fect at  a  distance.  What !  will  they  say,  can  Shakspeare  be 
reproached  with  having  too  much  nicety  in  his  perceptions, 
he  who  has  indulged  himself  in  situations  so  terrible  ?  Shak- 
speare often  reunites  qualities,  and  even  faults,  that  are  con- 
trary to  each  other ;  he  is  sometimes  within,  sometimes  with- 
out the  sphere  of  art ;  but  he  possesses  the  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart  even  more  than  that  of  the  theatre. 

In  their  dramas,  their  comic  operas,  and  their  comedies,  the 
French  evince  a  sagacity  and  a  grace  which  only  themselves 
possess  in  the  same  degree ;  and,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to 
the  other,  they  perform  scarcely  any  thing  but  translations  of 
French  pieces ;  but  it  is  not  the  same  with  their  tragedies.  As 
the  severe  rules  to  which  they  are  subjected,  occasion  their 
being  all  more  or  less  confined  within  the  same  circle,  the  per- 
fection of  style  is  indispensable  to  the  admiration  which  they 
are  calculated  to  inspire.  If  any  innovation  on  the  rules  of 
tragedy  were  risked  in  France,  all  the  world  would  immediately 
cry  out,  a  melodrama !  But  is  it  a  matter  of  no  importance 
whatever,  to  ascertain  what  it  is  that  causes  so  many  people 
to  be  pleased  with  melodramas  ?  In  England,  all  classes  are 
equally  attracted  by  the  pieces  of  Shakspeare.  Our  finest 
tragedies  in  France  do  not  interest  the  people  ;  under  the  pre- 
tence of  a  taste  too  pure  and  a  sentiment  too  refined  to  support 
certain  emotions,  the  art  is  divided  into  two  branches;  the 
worst  plays  contain  the  most  touching  situations  ill  expressed, 
and  the  finest  paint  with  admirable  skill  situations  often  cold, 
because  they  are  dignified :  we  possess  few  tragedies  capable 
of  exciting  at  the  same  time  the  imaginations  of  all  ranks  of 
society. 


262  MADAME   DE    STAEL,'s    GEKMANY. 

These  observations  are  not  intended  to  convey  the  slightest 
blame  against  our  great  masters.  In  the  foreign  dramas  there 
are  scenes  which  produce  more  lively  impressions,  but  nothing 
to  be  compared  to  the  imposing  and  -well-combined  general 
effect  of  our  dramatic  chefs-d'oeuvre  :  the  point  is  only  to  know 
whether,  in  being  confined,  as  at  present,  to  the  imitation  of 
these  chefs-d'oeuvre,  we  shall  ever  produce  any  new  ones. 
Nothing  in  life  ought  to  be  stationary ;  and  art  is  petrified 
when  it  refuses  to  change.  Twenty  years  of  revolution  have 
given  to  the  imagination  other  wants  than  those  which  it  ex- 
perienced when  the  romances  of  Crebillon  painted  the  love 
and  the  manners  of  the  age.  Greek  subjects  are  exhausted ; 
one  man  only,  Le  Mercier,  has  been  able  to  reap  new  glory 
from  an  ancient  subject,  Agamemnon ;  but  the  taste  of  the  age 
naturally  inclines  to  historical  tragedy. 

Every  thing  is  tragic  in  the  events  by  which  nations  are 
interested ;  and  this  immense  drama,  which  the  human  race 
has  for  these  six  thousand  years  past  been  performing,  would 
furnish  innumerable  subjects  for  the  theatre,  if  more  freedom 
were  allowed  to  the  dramatic  art.  Rules  are  but  the  itinerary 
of  genius ;  they  only  teach  us  that  Corneille,  Racine,  and  Vol- 
taire, have  passed  that  way;  but  provided  we  arrive  at  the 
same  end,  why  cavil  about  the  road  ?  And  is  not  the  end  that 
of  moving,  at  the  same  time  that  we  ennoble,  the  soul  ? 

Curiosity  is  one  of  the  great  excitements  of  the  theatre  ;  but 
the  only  inexhaustible  interest  is  that  which  is  inspired  by 
deep  affection.  We  love  that  species  of  poetry  which  discov- 
ers man  to  man ;  we  love  to  see  how  a  creature  like  ourselves 
combats  with  suffering,  sinks  under  it,  triumphs  over  it,  is  ren- 
dered subject,  or  rises  superior,  to  the  power  of  fate.  In  some 
of  our  tragedies  we  find  situations  equally  violent  with  those 
of  the  English  and  German  ;  but  these  situations  are  not  repre- 
sented in  all  their  force  ;  and  their  effect  is  sometimes  softened, 
or  even  altogether  effaced,  by  affectation.  Our  authors  seldom 
depart  from  a  sort  of  conventional  nature  which  clothes  in  its 
own  colors  ancient  manners  with  the  resemblance  of  those  of 
modern  times,  vice  with  that  of  virtue,  assassination  with  that 


THE   DRAMATIC   AET.  263 

of  gallantry.  This  nature  is  beautiful  and  adorned  with  care, 
but  she  fatigues  us  in  the  end ;  and  the  desire  of  plunging  into 
deeper  mysteries  must  obtain  invincible  possession  of  genius. 

It  is  much  to  be  desired,  then,  that  we  could  overleap  the 
barriers  with  which  this  art  is  surrounded  by  the  law  of  rhymes 
and  hemistichs ;  we  should  allow  greater  boldness,  and  exact 
a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  history ;  for,  if  we  confine 
ourselves  exclusively  to  these  every-day  fainter  impressions  of 
the  same  great  productions  of  genius,  we  shall  at  last  see  upon 
the  stage  nothing  but  so  many  heroic  puppets,  sacrificing  love 
to  duty,  preferring  death  to  slavery,  inspired  by  antithesis  in 
actions  as  in  words,  but  without  any  resemblance  to  that  aston- 
ishing creature  which  is  called  man,  or  any  relation  to  that 
fearful  destiny  which  by  turns  impels  and  pursues  him. 

The  defects  of  the  German  theatre  are  obvious :  every  thing 
that  looks  like  want  of  acquaintance  with  the  world,  whether 
in  art  or  in  society,  immediately  strikes  the  most  superficial 
observer ;  but,  to  feel  the  beauties  which  come  from  the  soul, 
it  is  necessary  to  appreciate  the  works  that  are  presented  to  us 
with  a  sort  of  candor  which  is  altogether  consistent  with  the 
highest  superiority  of  mind.  Ridicule  is  often  only  a  vulgar 
sentiment  translated  into  impertinence.  The  faculty  of  per- 
ceiving and  admiring  real  greatness  through  all  the  faults  of 
bad  taste  in  literature,  as  through  all  the  inconsistencies  with 
which  it  is  sometimes  surrounded  in  the  conduct  of  life,  is  the 
only  faculty  that  does  honor  to  the  critic. 

In  making  my  readers  acquainted  with  a  theatre  founded  on 
principles  so  different  from  our  own,  I  certainly  do  not  pretend 
that  these  principles  are  better,  still  less  that  they  ought  to  be 
adopted  in  France :  but  foreign  combinations  may  excite  new 
ideas ;  and  when  we  see  with  what  sterility  our  literature  is 
threatened,  it  seems  to  me  difficult  not  to  desire  that  our  writ- 
ers may  enlarge  a  little  the  limits  of  the  course :  would  they 
not  do  well  to  become  conquerors,  in  their  turn,  in  the  empire 
of  the  imagination  ?  It  would  cost  the  French  but  little  to 
follow  such  advice. 


264  MADAME  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

OF   THE    DRAMAS    OF   LESSING. 

THE  German  theatre  did  not  exist  before  Lessing ;  they  per- 
formed only  translations  and  imitations  of  foreign  dramas. 
The  theatre  requires,  even  more  than  any  other  branch  of 
literature,  a  capital,  a  centre  of  union  for  the  resources  of 
wealth  and  of  the  arts ;  in  Germany  every  thing  is  scattered 
abroad.  In  one  town  they  have  actors,  in  another,  authors, 
in  a  third,  spectators  ;  and  nowhere  a  focus  in  which  to  collect 
them  together.  Lessing  exerted  the  natural  activity  of  his 
character  in  giving  a  national  theatre  to  his  countrymen,  and 
he  wrote  a  journal  entitled  Dramaturgie,  in  which  he  exam- 
ined most  of  the  pieces  translated  from  the  French,  which  were 
then  acted  in  Germany  :  the  correctness  of  thought  which  he 
displays  in  his  criticisms,  evinces  even  more  of  a  philosophical 
spirit  than  knowledge  of  the  art.  Lessing  generally  thought 
like  Diderot  on  the  subject  of  dramatic  poetry.  He  believed 
that  the  strict  regularity  of  the  French  tragedies  was  an  obsta- 
cle to  the  adoption  of  a  great  many  simple  and  affecting  sub- 
jects, and  that  it  was  necessary  to  invent  new  dramas  to  supply 
the  want  of  them.  But  Diderot,  in  his  dramas,  substituted  the 
affectation  of  simplicity  in  the  room  of  a  more  usual  affecta- 
tion, while  the  genius  of  Lessing  is  really  simple  and  sincere. 
He  was  the  first  to  give  to  the  Germans  the  honorable  impulse 
of  following  their  own  genius  in  their  theatrical  works.  The 
originality  of  his  character  shows  itself  in  his  dramas  :  yet  are 
they  subjected  to  the  same  principles  as  ours ;  their  form  has 
nothing  in  it  peculiar,  and  though  he  troubled  himself  little 
about  the  unity  of  time  and  place,  he  did  not  rise,  like  Goethe 
and  Schiller,  to  the  conception  of  a  new  system.  Minna  von 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    LHSSING.  205 

Harnhelm,  Emilia  Galotti,  and  Nathan  the  Saye,1  are  the  most 
worthy  to  be  cited  of  all  the  works  of  Lessing. 

An  officer  of  nobler  character,  after  having  received  many 
wounds  in  the  army,  finds  his  honor  on  a  sudden  threatened 
by  an  unjust  prosecution  :  he  will  not  discover  to  the  woman 
he  loves,  and  by  whom  he  is  loved,  the  attachment  he  has  for 
her,  being  determined  not  to  make  her  a  partaker  in  his  mis- 
fortune by  marrying  her.  This  is  the  whole  subject  of  Minna 
von  Barnhelm.  With  means  so  simple,  Lessing  has  known 
how  to  produce  a  great  interest ;  the  dialogue  is  full  of  spirit 
and  attraction,  the  style  very  pure,  and  every  character  so  well 
displayed,  that  the  slightest  shades  of  their  several  impressions 
create  that  sort  of  interest  that  is  inspired  by  the  confidence  of 
a  friend.  The  character  of  an  old  serjeant,  devoted  with  his 
whole  soul  to  a  young  officer  who  is  the  object  of  persecution, 
affords  a  happy  mixture  of  gayety  and  sentiment ;  this  sort  of 
character  always  succeeds  on  the  stage ;  gayety  is  the  more 
pleasing  when  we  know  that  it  does  not  proceed  from  insensi- 
bility, and  sentiment  more  natural  when  it  displays  itself  only 
at  intervals.  In  the  same  piece  we  have  the  part  of  a  French 
adventurer,  in  which  the  author  has  altogether  failed ;  one 
should  have  a  light  hand  to  touch  the  ridiculous  part  of  a 
Frenchman's  character;  and  most  foreigners  have  daubed  it 
with  coarse  colors,  which  present  nothing  that  is  either  delicate 
or  striking. 

Emilia  Galotti  is  only  the  story  of  Virginia  invested  with 
modern  circumstances,  and  thrown  into  private  life ;  its  senti- 
ments are  too  strong  for  the  situation,  its  action  too  important 
to  be  attributed  to  an  unknown  character.  Lessing  felt,  no 
doubt,  a  republican  spleen  against  courtiers,  which  he  has 
gratified  in  drawing  the  portrait  of  one  who  assists  his  master 
in  dishonoring  a  young  and  innocent  girl ;  this  courtier,  Mar- 
tinelli,  is  almost  too  vile  for  probability,  and  the  traits  of  his 
baseness  are  destitute  of  originality  :  we  perceive  that  Lessing 
has  represented  him  thus  with  a  hostile  intent,  and  nothing 

>  Nathan  der  Weise.— Ed. 
VOL.  I.— 12 


266  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

injures  the  beauty  of  a  fiction  so  much,  as  the  appearance  of 
any  design  which  has  not  that  beauty  for  its  object.  The  char- 
acter of  the  prince  is  treated  with  greater  nicety ;  that  union 
of  tumultuous  passions  with  inconstancy  of  mind,  so  fatal  in  a 
person  invested  with  power,  is  perceivable  in  all  his  conduct : 
an  aged  minister  brings  him  papers,  among  which  is  a  death- 
sentence  ;  in  his  impatience  to  visit  the  object  of  his  affections, 
the  prince  is  about  to  sign,  without  having  looked  at  it ;  the 
minister  avails  himself  of  a  pretext  to  withdraw  it,  shuddering 
as  he  perceives  the  exercise  of  such  power  combined  with  such 
want  of  reflection.  The  part  of  the  Countess  Orsina,  a  young 
mistress  of  the  prince,  whom  he  abandons  for  Emilia,  is  drawn 
with  the  greatest  genius, — a  mixture  of  frivolity  and  violence, 
which  we  may  well  expect  to  find  in  a  young  Italian  attached 
to  a  court.  This  woman  shows  us  what  society  has  produced, 
and  what  that  same  society  has  not  been  able  to  destroy, — the 
natural  character  of  the  South,  combined  with  all  that  is  most 
factitious  in  the  manners  of  the  great  world,  and  the  singular 
assemblage  of  haughtiness  in  vice  and  vanity  in  sentiment. 
Such  a  picture  cannot  present  itself  in  our  rules  of  verse,  or  in 
our  established  laws  of  dramatic  poetry,  yet  is  it  not  the  less 
essentially  tragic. 

The  scene  in  which  the  Countess  Orsina  excites  Emilia's 
father  to  kill  the  prince,  in  order  to  save  his  daughter  from 
the  disgrace  which  threatens  her,  is  one  of  the  greatest  beauty; 
there  we  see  virtue  armed  by  vice,  and  passion  suggesting  all 
that  the  most  rigorous  austerity  could  dictate  to  inflame  the 
jealous  honor  of  an  old  man  ;  it  is  the  human  heart  presented 
in  a  new  situation,  and  it  is  in  this  that  true  dramatic  genius 
consists.  The  old  man  takes  the  poniard,  and  being  prevented 
from  assassinating  the  prince,  he  uses  it  for  the  sacrifice  of  his 
daughter.  Orsina  is  the  ignorant  author  of  this  terrible  action ; 
it  was  she  who  engraved  her  transitory  fury  on  a  mind  of  deep 
sensibility;  and  the  senseless  ravings  of  her  guilty  passion 
proved  the  cause  of  shedding  innocent  blood. 

One  remarks  in  the  principal  characters  of  Lessing  a  certain 
family  likeness,  which  leads  one  to  imagine  that  he  has  painted 


THE   DRAMAS   OF   LESSIN'G.  267 

himself  in  several  of  his  personages;  Major  Tellheim  in  Minna, 
Odoard,  the  father  of  Emilia,  and  the  Templar  in  Nathan,  all 
three  are  endued  with  a  proud  sensibility  of  a  misanthropic 
cast. 

The  finest  of  the  works  of  Lessing  is  Nathan  the  Sage. 
There  is  no  dramatic  piece  in  which  we  see  the  principles  of 
religious  toleration  brought  into  action  with  more  nature  and 
dignity.  A  Turk,  a  Templar,  and  a  Jew  are  the  principal 
characters  of  this  play ;  the  idea  is  taken  from  the  story  of 
the  three  rings  in  Boccaccio,  but  the  conduct  of  the  piece  is 
entirely  Lessing's  own.  The  Turk  is  Sultan  Saladin,  who  is 
represented,  according  to  history,  as  a  man  of  a  truly  great 
mind ;  the  young  Templar  has  in  his  character  all  the  severity 
of  the  religious  state  to  which  he  has  consecrated  himself; 
and  the  Jew  i^  an  old  man,  who  has  acquired  a  large  fortune 
by  trade,  but  Xdxo^eliberal  habits  are  the  result  of  his  exten- 
sive knowledge  and  natural  benevolence.  He  comprehends  in 
one  sentiment  all  the  modes  of  sincere  belief,  and  sees  the 
Divinity  itself  in  the  heart  of  every  virtuous  man. 

TiuiTis  a  charao?er"bf  admirable  simplicity.  One  is  aston- 
ished at  the  emotion  which  it  excites,  although  not  agitated 
by  lively  passions  or  powerful  circumstances.  Once,  neverthe- 
less, they  attempt  to  tear  away  from  Nathan  a  young  girl  to 
whom  he  had  acted  the  part  of  a  father,  and  whom  he  had 
carefully  watched  from  the  hour  of  her  birth :  the  pain  of 
separating  himself  from  her  would  be  bitter  to  him ;  and  to 
defend  himself  against  the  injustice  which  would  ravish  her 
from  him,  he  relates  in  what  manner  she  had  fallen  into  his 
hands. 

The  Christians  immolated  all  the  Jews  at  Gaza,  and  Nathan 
beheld  his  wife  and  seven  children  perish  in  a  single  night ; 
he  passed  three  days  prostrate  in  the  dust,  swearing  implaca- 
ble hatred  to  the  Christian  name ;  by  little  and  little  his 
reason  returned,  and  he  cried  :  "  Yet  there  is  a  God,  his  will  be 
done  !"  At  this  moment  a  priest  came  to  beg  him  to  take 
care  of  a  Christian  infant,  an  orphan  from  the  cradle,  and  the 
old  Jew  adopted  it.  The  emotion  of  Nathan  in  making  this 


268  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

recital  is  the  more  pathetic,  as  he  endeavors  to  restrain  it,  and 
the  shame  of  old  age  makes  him  wish  to  hide  what  he  feels. 
His  sublime  patience  does  not  fail,  though  attacked  in  his 
belief  and  in  his  pride,  by  their  accusing  him,  as  a  crime,  of 
having  educated  Reca  in  the  Jewish  religion ;  and  his  justifi- 
cation has  no  other  end  than  to  procure  him  the  right  of  con- 
tinuing to  do  good  to  the  child  whom  chance  bestowed  upon 
him. 

The  play  of  Nathan  is  yet  more  attractive  by  the  delineation 
of  character  than  by  its  situations.  The  Templar  has  some- 
thing of  the  ferocious  in  his  disposition,  which  arises  from  the 
fear  of  being  susceptible  of  tenderness.  The  oriental  prodi- 
gality of  Saladin  is  opposed  to  the  generous  economy  of  Na- 
than. The  sultan's  treasurer,  an  old,  austere  dervise,  informs 
him  that  his  revenues  are  exhausted  by  his  bounties.  "  I  am 
sorry  for  it,"  says  •  Saladin,  "  because  I  shall  be  forced  to  re- 
trench my  donations :  for  myself,  I  shall  still  retain  that  which- 
has  always  constituted  the  whole  of  my  fortune — a  horse,  a 
sword,  and  one  only  God."*  Nathan  is  a  philanthropist;  but 
the  disgrace  which  the  Jewish  name  has  attached  to  him  in 
society,  mixes  a  sort  of  contempt  for  human  nature  with  the 
expression  of  his  benevolence.  Every  scene  adds  some  lively 
and  striking  features  to  the  development  of  these  several  per- 
sonages ;  but  their  relations  to  each  other  are  not  close  enough 
to  excite  any  very  powerful  emotion. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  piece  it  is  discovered  that  the 
Templar  and  the  girl  adopted  by  the  Jew  are  brother  and  sis- 
ter, and  that  the  sultan  is  their  uncle.  The  author's  intention 
has  evidently  been  to  give  an  example,  in  his  dramatic  family, 
of  the  most  extended  religious  fraternity.  The  philosophical 
end  to  which  the  whole  piece  is  made  to  contribute,  diminishes 
its  theatrical  interest ;  it  is  almost  impossible  to  avoid  a  certain 
degree  of  coldness  in  a  drama,  of  which  the  object  is  to  de- 
velop a  general  idea,  however  fine  it  may  be  :  it  resembles  a 
mere  moral  apologue ;  and  one  is  apt  to  say  that  the  persons 
of  the  drama  are  there,  not  on  their  own  account,  but  to  con- 
tribute to  the  advancement  of  knowledge.  It  is  true  that 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   LESSESTG.  269 

there  is  no  fictitious,  nor  even  real  event,  from  which  some  re- 
flection may  not  be  derived ;  but  the  event  ought  to  lead  the 
reflection,  and  not  the  reflection  give  birth  to  the  event.  Imag- 
ination, in  the  fine  arts,  ought  always  tto  be  the  first  in  action. 

Since  Lessing,  there  have  appeared  an  infinite  number  of 
German  dramas;  at  last  people  begin  to  get  tired  of  them. 
The  mixed  species  of  drama  was  introduced  only  by  reason  of 
the  constraint  which  is  imposed  by  tragedy ;  it  is  a  sort  of 
contraband  in  art ;  but  when  entire  freedom  is  allowed,  one 
no  longer  feels  the  necessity  of  having  recourse  to  the  drama 
for  the  use  of  simple  and  natural  circumstances.  The  drama, 
then,  would  preserve  only  one  advantage,  that  of  painting,  in 
the  manner  of  romances,  the  situations  of  our  own  lives,  the 
manners  of  the  times  in  which  we  live ;  yet,  when  we  hear 
only  unknown  names  pronounced  on  the  stage,  we  lose  one  of 
the  greatest  pleasures  that  tragedy  can  confer,  the  historical 
recollections  which  it  traces.  We  expect  to  find  more  interest 
in  the  piece,  because  it  represents  to  us  what  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  seeing  daily,  forgetting  that  an  imitation  too  near  the 
truth  is  not  what  one  looks  for  in  the  fine  arts.  The  drama  is 
to  tragedy  what  waxen  images  are  to  statues ;  there  is  too  much 
truth,  and  not  enough  of  the  ideal ;  too  much,  if  we  consider 
it  in  the  light  of  art,  yet  not  enough  to  render  it  nature. 

Lessing  can  never  be  reckoned  a  dramatic  author  of  the  first 
order;  he  attended  to  too  many  different  objects  to  acquire 
great  skill  in  any  department  whatever.  Genius  is  universal ; 
but  a  natural  aptitude  to  one  of  the  fine  arts  is  necessarily 
exclusive.  Lessing  was,  above  all,  a  dialectician  of  the  first 
eminence,  which  is  an  obstacle  to  dramatic  eloquence,  for  sen- 
timent disdains  transitions,  gradations,  and  motives;  it  is  a 
continual  and  spontaneous  inspiration  which  cannot  render 
any  account  of  itself.  Lessing  was,  no  doubt,  far  from  the 
dryness  of  philosophy,  yet  he  had  more  of  vivacity  than  of 
sensibility  in  his  character;  dramatic  genius  is  of  a  more 
capricious,  a  more  sombre,  a  more  unpremeditated  cast,  than 
suits  a  man  who  has  devoted  the  greatest  part  of  his  life  to 
the  art  of  reasoning. 


270  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  ROBBERS  AND  DON  CARLOS  OF  SCHILLER. 

SCHILLER,  in  his  earliest  youth,  possessed  a  fervor  of  genius, 
a  kind  of  intoxication  of  mind,  which  misguided  him.  The 
Conspiracy  of  Fiesco,  Intrigue  and  Love,  and,  lastly,  the  Rob- 
bers, all  of  which  have  been  performed  in  the  French  theatre, 
are  works  which  the  principles  of  art,  as  well  as  those  of  mo- 
rality, may  condemn ;  but,  from  the  age  of  five-and-twenty, 
his  writings  were  pure  and  severe.  The  education  of  life 
depraves  the  frivolous,  but  perfects  the  reflecting  mind. 

The  Robbers  has  been  translated  into  French,  but  greatly 
altered ;  at  first  they  omitted  to  take  advantage  of  the  date, 
which  affixes  an  historical  interest  to  the  piece.  The  scene  is 
placed  in  the  fifteenth  century,  at  the  moment  when  the  edict 
of  perpetual  peace,  by  which  all  private  challenges  were  for- 
bidden, was  published  in  the  empire.  This  edict  was  no  doubt 
productive  of  great  advantage  to  the  repose  of  Germany ;  but 
the  young  men  of  birth,  accustomed  to  live  in  the  midst  of 
dangers,  and  rely  upon  their  personal  strength,  fancied  that 
they  fell  into  a  sort  of  shameful  inertness  when  they  subjected 
themselves  to  the  authority  of  the  laws.  Nothing  was  more 
absurd  than  this  conception ;  yet,  as  men  are  generally  gov- 
erned by  custom,  it  is  natural  to  be  repugnant  even  to  the  best 
of  changes,  only  because  it  is  a  change.  Schiller's  Captain  of 
the  Robbers  is  less  odious  than  if  he  were  placed  in  the  pres- 
ent times,  for  there  was  little  difference  between  the  feudal 
anarchy  under  which  he  lived  and  the  bandit  life  which  he 
adopted;  but  it  is  precisely  the  kind  of  excuse  which  the 
author  affords  him  that  renders  his  piece  the  more  dangerous. 
It  has  produced,  it  must  be  allowed,  a  bad  effect  in  Germany. 
Young  men,  enthusiastic  admirers  of  the  character  and  mode 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  Z  I  1 

of  living  of  the  Captain  of  the  Robbers,  have  tried  to  imitate 
him. 

Their  taste  for  a  licentious  life  they  honored  with  the  name 
of  the  love  of  liberty,  and  fancied  themselves  to  be  indignant 
against  the  abuses  of  social  order,  when  they  were  only  tired 
of  their  own  private  condition.  Their  essays  in  rebellion  were 
merely  ridiculous,  yet  have  tragedies  and  romances  more  im- 
portance in  Germany  than  in  any  other  country.  Every  thing 
there  is  done  seriously ;  and  the  lot  of  life  is  influenced  by 
the  reading  such  a  work,  or  the  seeing  such  a  performance. 
What  is  admired  as  art,  must  be  introduced  into  real  existence. 
Werther  has  occasioned  more  suicides  than  the  finest  woman 
in  the  world ;  and  poetry,  philosophy,  in  short,  the  ideal  have 
often  more  command  over  the  Germans,  than  nature  and  the 
passions  themselves. 

The  subject  of  the  Robbers  is  the  same  with  that  of  so  many 
other  fictions,  all  founded  originally  on  the  parable  of  the 
Prodigal.  There  is  a  hypocritical  son,  who  conducts  himself 
well  in  outward  appearance,  and  a  culpable  son,  who  possesses 
good  feelings  among  all  his  faults.  This  contrast  is  very  fine 
in  a  religious  point  of  view,  because  it  bears  witness  to  us  that 
God  reads  our  hearts ;  but  is  nevertheless  objectionable  in  in- 
spiring too  much  interest  in  favor  of  a  son  who  has  deserted 
his  father's  house.  It  teaches  young  people  with  bad  heads, 
universally  to  boast  of  the  goodness  of  their  hearts,  although 
nothing  is  more  absurd  than  for  men  to  attribute  to  themselves 
virtues,  only  because  they  have  defects ;  this  negative  pledge 
is  very  uncertain,  since  it  never  can  follow  from  their  wanting 
reason,  that  they  are  possessed  of  sensibility  :  madness  is  often 
only  an  impetuous  egotism. 

The  character  of  the  hypocritical  son,  such  as  Schiller  has 
represented  him,  is  much  too  odious.  It  is  one  of  the  faults 
of  very  young  writers,  to  sketch  with  too  hasty  a  pencil ;  the 
gradual  shades  in  painting  are  taken  for  timidity  of  character, 
when,  in  fact,  they  constitute  a  proof  of  the  maturity  of  talent. 
If  the  personages  of  the  second  rank  are  not  painted  with  suffi- 
cient exactness,  the  passions  of  the  chief  of  the  robbers  are 


MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

admirably  expressed.  The  energy  of  this  character  manifests 
itself  by  turns  in  incredulity,  religion,  love,  and  cruelty  ;  having 
been  unable  to  find  a  place  where  to  fix  himself  in  his  proper 
rank,  he  makes  to  himself  an  opening  through  the  commission 
of  crime ;  existence  is  for  him  a  sort  of  delirium,  heightened 
sometimes  by  rage,  and  sometimes  by  remorse. 

The  love  scenes  between  the  young  girl  and  the  chief  of  the 
robbers,  who  Avas  to  have  been  her  husband,  are  admirable  in 
point  of  enthusiasm  and  sensibility  ;  there  are  few  situations 
more  pathetic  than  that  of  this  perfectly  virtuous  woman,  al- 
ways attached  from  the  bottom  of  her  soul  to  him  whom  she 
loved  before  he  became  criminal.  The  respect  which  a  woman 
is  accustomed  to  feel  for  the  man  she  loves,  is  changed  into  a 
sort  of  terror  and  of  pity ;  and  one  would  say  that  the  unfor- 
tunate female  flatters  herself  with  the  thought  of  becoming  the 
guardian  angel  of  her  guilty  lover  in  heaven,  now,  when  she 
can  never  more  hope  to  be  the  happy  companion  of  his  pil- 
grimage on  earth. 

Schiller's  play  cannot  be  fairly  appreciated  by  the  French 
translation.  In  this,  they  have  preserved  only  what  may  be 
called  the  pantomime  of  action ;  the  originality  of  the  charac- 
ters has  vanished,  and  it  is  that  alone  which  can  give  life  to 
fiction  ;  the  finest  tragedies  would  degenerate  into  melodramas, 
when  stripped  of  the  animated  coloring  of  sentiments  and  pas- 
sions. The  force  of  events  is  not  enough  to  unite  the  specta- 
tor with  the  persons  represented ;  let  them  love,  or  let  them 
kill  one  another,  it  is  all  the  same  to  us,  if  the  author  has  failed 
of  exciting  our  sympathies  in  their  favor. 

Don  Carlos  is  also  a  work  of  Schiller's  youth,  and  yet  it  is 
considered  as  a  composition  of  the  highest  rank.  The  subject 
of  this  play  is  one  of  the  most  dramatic  that  history  presents 
to  us.  A  young  princess,  daughter  of  Henry  the  Second,  takes 
leave  of  France  and  of  the  brilliant  and  chivalrous  court  of  her 
father,  to  unite  herself  to  an  old  tyrant,  so  gloomy  and  so  severe, 
that  even  the  Spanish  character  itself  was  altered  by  his  gov- 
ernment, and  the  whole  nation  for  a  long  time  afterwards  bore 
the  impress  of  its  master.  Don  Carlos,  at  first  betrothed  to 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER. 


273 


Elizabeth,  continues  to  love  her  though  she  has  become  his 
stepmother.  Those  great  political  events,  the  Reformation, 
and  the  Revolt  of  the  Low  Countries,  are  intermingled  with  the 
tragic  catastrophe  of  the  condemnation  of  the  son  by  the  fa- 
ther :  the  interests  of  individuals  and  of  the  public,  in  their 
highest  possible  degrees,  are  united  in  this  tragedy.  Many 
writers  have  treated  this  subject  in  France,  but  under  the  an- 
cient regime  its  representation  on  the  stage  was  prohibited ; 
it  was  thought  deficient  in  respect  to  the  Spanish  nation  to 
represent  this  fact  in  their  history.  M.  d'Aranda,  that  Span- 
ish ambassador  remarkable  by  so  many  features  which  prove 
the  strength  of  his  character  and  the  narrowness  of  his  intel- 
lect, was  asked  permission  for  the  performance  of  the  tragedy 
of  Don  Carlos,  just  finished  by  its  author,  who  expected  great 
glory  from  its  representation  :  -"  Why  does  he  not  take  another 
subject  ?"  answered  M.  d'Aranda.  "  M.  1'Ambassadeur,"  said 
they  to  him,  "  consider  that  the  piece  is  finished,  and  that  the 
author  has  devoted  to  it  three  years  of  his  life."  "  But,  good 
heavens !"  returned  the  ambassador,  "  is  there  no  other  event 
in  all  history  but  this  ?  Let  him  choose  another."  They  never 
could  drive  him  out  of  this  ingenious  mode  of  reasoning,  which 
was  supported  by  a  firm  resolution. 

Historical  subjects  exercise  the  genius  in  an  entirely  differ- 
ent manner  from  that  in  which  it  is  exercised  by  subjects  of 
invention ;  yet  it  requires,  perhaps,  even  more  imagination  to 
represent  historical  fact  in  a  tragedy,  than  to  create  situations 
and  personages  at  will.  To  alter  facts  essentially  in  transfer- 
ring them  to  the  theatre,  is  always  sure  to  produce  a  disagree- 
able impression ;  we  expect  truth ;  and  we  are  painfully  sur- 
prised when  the  author  substitutes  in  the  room  of  it  any  fiction 
which  it  may  have  pleased  him  to  adopt :  nevertheless,  history 
requires  to  be  combined  in  an  artistic  manner,  in  order  to  pro- 
duce its  effect  on  the  stage,  and  we  must  have  at  once  united 
in  tragedy,  the  talent  of  painting  the  truth,  and  that  of  render- 
ing it  poetical.  Difficulties  of  another  nature  present  them- 
selves when  the  dramatic  art  embraces  the  wide  field  of  inven- 
tion ;  it  may  be  said  to  be  then  more  at  liberty,  yet  nothing 

120 


27-i  MADAME    DE    STAEL^S    GERMANY. 

is  more  rare  than  the  power  of  characterizing  unknown  person- 
ages in  such  a  manner  as  to  give  them  the  consistency  of 
names  already  illustrious.  Lear,  Othello,  Orosmane,  Tancrede, 
have  received  immortality  at  the  hands  of  Shakspeare  and  Vol- 
taire, without  having  ever  existed ;  still,  however,  subjects  of 
invention  arc,  generally  speaking,  dangerous  to  the  poet, 
through  that  very  independence  which  they  confer  upon  him. 
Historical  subjects  seem  to  impose  restraint;  but  when  the 
writer  avails  himself  properly  of  that  support  which  may  be 
derived  from  certain  fixed  limits,  the  career  which  they  pre- 
scribe, and  the  flights  which  they  permit,  even  these  very 
limits  are  favorable  to  genius.  The  fidelity  of  poetry  gives 
a  relief  to  truth,  as  the  sun's  rays  to  colors,  and  restores 
to  events  which  it  graces  the  lustre  which  antiquity  had  ob 
scured. 

The  preference  is  given  in  Germany  to  those  historical  trag- 
edies in  which  art  displays  itself,  like  the  prophet  of  the  past} 
The  author  who  means  to  compose  such  a  work  as  this,  must 
transport  himself  altogether  to  the  age  and  manners  of  the 
personages  represented,  and  an  anachronism  in  sentiments  and 
ideas  is  more  justly  obnoxious  to  the  severity  of  criticism  than 
in  dates. 

It  is  upon  these  principles  that  some  persons  have  blamed 
Schiller  for  having  invented  the  character  of  the  Marquis  de 
Posa,  a  noble  Spaniard,  a  partisan  of  liberty  and  of  toleration, 
passionately  zealous  in  favor  of  all  the  new7  ideas  which  then 
began  to  ferment  in  Europe.  I  imagine  that  Schiller  may  be 
•justly  reproached  with  having  made  the  Marquis  de  Posa  the 
channel  for  the  communication  of  his  own  private  opinions ; 
but  it  is  not,  as  is  pretended,  the  philosophical  spirit  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  is  attributed  to  him.  The  Marquis  de 
Posa,  such  as  Schiller  has  painted  him,  is  a  German  enthusiast ; 
and  this  character  is  so  foreign  to  our  own  times,  that  we  may 
as  well  conceive  him  a  personage  of  the  sixteenth  century,  as 


1  An  expression  of  Frederick  Schlegel,  on  the  penetration  of  a  great  nis- 
torian. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  275 

of  that  in  which  we  live.  It  is,  perhaps,  a  greater  error  to 
suppose  that  Philip  the  Second  could  long  listen  with  pleasure 
to  such  a  man,  or  that  he  could  have  granted  him  his  confi- 
dence even  for  an  instant.  Posa,  speaking  of  Philip  the  Sec- 
ond, says  with  reason,  "  I  have  been  vainly  endeavoring  to  ele- 
vate his  soul,  for  in  this  cold  and  thankless  soil,  the  flowers  of 
my  imagination  could  never  prosper."  But  Philip  the  Second 
would  never,  in  reality,  have  conversed  at  all  with  such  a 
young  man  as  the  Marquis  de  Posa.  The  aged  son  of  Charles 
the  Fifth  could  never  have  seen,  in  youth  and  enthusiasm,  any 
thing  but  the  error  of  nature  and  the  guilt  of  the  Reformation  ; 
had  he  at  any  time  bestowed  his  confidence  on  a  generous 
being,  he  would  have  belied  his  character,  and  deserved  the 
world's  forgiveness. 

There  are  inconsistencies  in  every  human  character,  even  in 
that  of  a  tyrant;  yet  do  those  very  inconsistencies  connect 
themselves  by  invisible  ties  to  their  nature.  In  the  tragedy  of 
Schiller,  one  of  these  peculiarities  is  seized  with  singular  dex- 
terity. The  Duke  of  Medina-Sidonia,  a  general  advanced  in 
years,  who  had  commanded  the  Invincible  Armada,  dispersed 
by  the  English  fleet  and  the  tempests,  returns  to  Spain,  and  all 
are  persuaded  that  he  is  about  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  resent- 
ment of  Philip  the  Second.  The  courtiers  retire  to  a  distance ; 
no  man  dares  draw  near  him ;  he  throws  himself  at  the  feet  of 
Philip,  and  says  to  him,  "Sire,  you  behold  in  me  all  that 
remains  of  that  fleet,  and  of  that  valiant  army,  which  you 
intrusted  to  my  charge."  "  God  is  above  me,"  replies  Philip ; 
"I  sent  you  forth  against  man,  not  against  the  storms  of 
heaven ;  be  still  considered  as  my  faithful  servant! "  This  is 
magnanimity :  yet  from  whence  does  it  proceed  ?  From  a 
certain  respect  for  age,  in  a  monarch  who  is  surprised  that  na- 
ture has  permitted  him  to  grow  old ;  from  pride,  which  will 
not  suffer  Philip  to  attribute  to  himself  his  misfortunes,  in  ac- 
knowledging he  has  made  a  bad  choice ;  from  the  indulgence 
he  feels  in  favor  of  a  man  dejected  by  fortune,  because  he  de- 
sires that  every  species  of  pride  may  be  humbled,  excepting 
his  own ;  from  the  very  character,  in  short,  of  a  despot,  whom 


276  MAHA:ME  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY. 

natural  obstacles  revolt  less  than  the  most  feeble  voluntary  re- 
sistance. This  scene  casts  a  strong  light  on  the  character  of 
Philip  the  Second. 

No  doubt  the  character  of  the  Marquis  de  Posa  may  be  con- 
sidered as  the  work  of  a  young  poet,  who  has  sought  to  engraft 
his  own  sentiments  upon  his  favorite  personage ;  yet  is  this 
character  very  fine  in  itself  also,  pure  and  exalted  in  the  midst 
of  a  court  where  the  silence  of  terror  is  disturbed  only  by  the 
subterraneous  voice  of  intrigue.  Don  Carlos  can  never  be  a 
great  man  :  his  father  must  necessarily  have  repressed  his  ge- 
nius in  infancy ;  the  Marquis  de  Posa  appears  to  be  indis- 
pensably placed  as  an  intermediate  personage  between  Philip 
and  his  son.  Don  Carlos  has  all  the  enthusiasm  of  the  affec- 
tions of  the  heart,  Posa,  that  of  the  public  virtues ;  one  should 
be  the  king,  the  other  the  friend ;  and  even  this  change  of 
situation  in  the  characters  is  an  ingenious  idea ;  for  how  could 
the  son  of  a  gloomy  and  cruel  despot  become  a  patriotic  hero  ? 
Where  could  he  have  learned  to  respect  mankind  ?  From  his 
father,  who  despised  them,  or  from  his  father's  courtiers,  who 
deserved  that  he  should  despise  them  ?  Don  Carlos  must  be 
weak  in  order  to  be  good ;  and  the  very  space  which  love 
occupies  in  his  existence,  excludes  from  his  soul  all  political 
reflections.  I  repeat,  then,  that  the  invention  of  this  character, 
of  the  Marquis  de  Posa,  appears  to  me  necessary,  in  order  to 
bring  forward  in  the  drama  the  great  interests  of  nations,  and 
that  chivalrous  elevation  which  was  suddenly  changed,  by  the 
increasing  knowledge  of  the  times,  into  the  love  of  liberty. 
These  sentiments,  however  modified,  could  never  have  been 
made  suitable  to  the  prince  royal ;  in  him  they  would  have 
taken  the  form  of  generosity,  and  liberty  must  never  be  repre- 
sented as  the  boon  of  power. 

The  ceremonious  gravity  of  the  court  of  Philip  II,  is 
characterized  in  a  very  striking  manner  in  the  scene  between 
Elizabeth  and  the  ladies  of  honor.  She  asks  one  of  them 
which  she  likes  best,  the  residence  at  Aranjuez,  or  at  Madrid  ? 
the  lady  answers  that,  from  time  immemorial,  the  queens  of 
Spain  have  been  accustomed  to  remain  three  months  at 


THE   DRAGILAS    OF   SCHILLEE.  277 

Madrid,  and  three  months  at  Aranjuez.  She  docs  not  allow 
herself  the  least  mark  of  preference,  thinking  herself  born  to 
have  no  feeling,  except  as  she  is  commanded  to  feel.  Elizabeth 
asks  for  her  daughter,  and  is  told  that  the  hour  appointed  for 
seeing  her  is  not  yet  come.  At  last  the  king  appears,  and  he 
banishes  this  same  devoted  lady  for  ten  years,  because  she 
has  left  the  queen  to  herself  for  a  single  half  hour. 

Philip  is  reconciled  for  a  moment  to  Don  Carlos,  and,  by 
one  speech  of  kindness,  regains  all  his  paternal  authority  over 
him.  "  Behold,"  says  Carlos,  "  the  heavens  bow  down  to 
assist  at  the  reconciliation  of  a  father  to  a  son  !" 

It  is  a  striking  moment,  that  in  which  the  Marquis  de 
Posa,  hopeless  of  escaping  the  vengeance  of  Philip,  entreats 
Elizabeth  to  recommend  to  Don  Carlos  the  accomplishment  of 
the  projects  they  have  formed  together  for  the  glory  and  hap- 
piness of  the  Spanish  nation.  "  Remind  him,"  he*  says,  "  when 
he  shall  be  of  riper  years, — remind  him  that  he  ought  to  have 
respect  for  the  dreams  of  his  youth."  In  fact,  as  we  advance 
in  life,  prudence  gains  too  much  upon  all  our  other  virtues ;  it 
seems  as  if  all  warmth  of  soul  were  merely  folly  ;  and  yet,  if 
man  could  still  retain  it  when  enlightened  by  experience,  if  he 
could  inherit  the  benefits  of  age  without  bending  under  its 
weight,  he  would  not  insult  those  elevated  virtues,  whose  first 
counsel  is  always  the  sacrifice  of  self. 

The  Marquis  de  Posa,  by  a  too  complicated  succession  of 
circumstances  has  been  led  to  imagine  himself  able  to  serve 
the  interests  of  Don  Carlos  with  his  father,  in  appearing  to 
sacrifice  him  to  his  fury.  He  fails  of  success  in  these  projects ; 
the  prince  is  sent  to  prison,  the  marquis  visits  him  there,  ex- 
plains to  him  the  motives  of  his  conduct,  and  while  he  is  em- 
ployed in  justifying  himself,  is  shot  by  an  assassin  commissioned 
by  Philip,  and  falls  dead  at  the  feet  of  his  friend.  The  grief 
of  Don  Carlos  is  admirable;  he  demands  of  his  father  to  re- 
store to  him  the  companion  of  his  youth,  who  has  been  slain 
by  him,  as  if  the  assassin  retained  the  power  of  giving  back 
life  to  his  victim.  With  his  eyes  fixed  on  this  motionless 
corpse,  but  lately  animated  by  so  many  noble  thoughts,  Don 


278  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

Carlos,  himself  condemned  to  die,  learns  what  death  is  in  the 
frozen  features  of  his  friend. 

In  this  tragedy  there  are  two  monks,  whose  characters  and 
modes  of  life  are  finely  contrasted  :  the  one  is  Domingo,  the 
king's  confessor ;  the  other  a  priest  living  in  the  retreat  of  a 
solitary  convent  at  the  gate  of  Madrid.  Domingo  is  nothing 
but  an  intriguing  perfidious  monk,  and  a  courtier,  the  confidant 
of  the  Duke  of  Alva,  whose  character  necessarily  vanishes  by 
the  side  of  that  of  Philip,  since  Philip  appropriates  to  himself 
all  that  is  grand  in  the  terrible.  The  solitary  monk  receives, 
without  knowing  them,  Don  Carlos  and  Posa,  who  had  ap- 
pointed a  rendezvous  at  this  convent  in  the  midst  of  their 
greatest  agitations.  The  calm  resignation  of  the  prior,  who 
gives  them  reception,  produces  a  pathetic  effect.  "  At  these 
walls,"  says  the  pious  recluse,  "  ends  the  bustle  of  the  world." 

But  there  is  nothing  in  the  whole  piece  that  equals  the 
originality  of  the  last  scene  but  one  of  the  fifth  act,  between 
the  king  and  the  grand  inquisitor.  Philip,  pursued  by  the 
jealous  hatred  he  has  conceived  against  his  own  son,  and  by 
the  terror  of  the  crime  he  is  going  to  commit — even  Philip 
envies  his  pages  who  are  sleeping  peacefully  at  his  bed's  foot, 
while  the  hell  in  his  own  mind  robs  him  of  repose.  He  sends 
for  the  grand  inquisitor  to  consult  him  on  the  condemnation 
of  Don  Carlos.  This  cardinal  monk  is  ninety  years  old ;  more 
advanced  in  years  than  Charles  the  Fifth,  if  alive,  would  then 
have  been ;  and  who  has  formerly  been  that  monarch's  pre- 
ceptor ;  he  is  blind,  and  lives  in  a  perfect  solitude ;  the  spies 
of  the  Inquisition  bring  him  the  news  of  what  is  passing  in  the 
world :  he  only  informs  himself  whether  there  are  any  crimes, 
or  faults,  or  ideas,  to  punish.  To  him,  Philip  the  Second,  in 
his  sixtieth  year,  is  still  young.  The  most  gloomy,  the  most 
cautious  of  despots,  still  appears  to  him  an  unthinking  mon- 
arch, whose  tolerating  spirit  will  introduce  the  Reformation 
into  Spain  ;  he  is  a  man  of  sincerity,  but  so  wasted  by  time, 
that  he  looks  like  a  living  spectre,  whom  Death  has  forgotten 
to  striko,  because  he  believed  him  long  since  in  his  grave. 

He  calls  Philip  to  account  for  the  death  of  Posa ;  and  re- 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   SCIIILLEK.  279 

proaches  him  with  it,  because  it  was  for  the  Inquisition  to  have 
condemned  him,  regretting  the  victim  only  as  he  had  been 
deprived  of  the  right  of  immolating  it  himself.  Philip  inter- 
rogates him  as  to  the  condemnation  of  his  son  :  "  Would  you," 
he  says,  "  inspire  me  with  a  belief  which  strips  the  murder  of 
a  child  of  its  horror?"  The  grand  inquisitor  answers  him, 
"  To  appease  eternal  justice,  the  son  of  God  died  on  the  cross." 
What  an  expression !  What  a  sanguinary  application  of  the 
most  affecting  doctrine ! 

This  blind  old  man  represents  an  entire  century  in  his  own 
person.  The  profound  terror  with  which  the  Inquisition  and 
the  very  fanaticism  of  this  period  afflicted  Spain,  is  painted  to 
the  life  in  this  laconic  and  rapid  scene  :  no  eloquence  is  capable 
of  so  well  expressing  such  a  crowd  of  reflections  ably  brought 
into  action. 

I  know  that  many  improprieties  may  be  detected  in  the  play 
of  Don  Carlos  ;  but  I  have  not  taken  upon  myself  this  office, 
for  which  there  are  many  competitors.  The  most  ordinary 
men  may  discover  defects  of  taste  in  Shakspeare,  Schiller, 
Goethe,  etc. ;  but  when  in  works  of  art,  we  think  only  of  un- 
dervaluing their  merits,  there  is  no  difficulty  in  the  operation. 
A  soul,  and  genius,  are  what  no  criticism  can  bestow :  these 
must  be  reverenced  wherever  they  are  seen,  with  whatever 
cloud  these  rays  of  celestial  light  may  be  surrounded.  Far 
from  rejoicing  in  the  errors  of  genius,  'they  ought  to  be  felt  as 
diminishing  the  patrimony  of  the  human  race,  and  the  titles  of 
honor  in  which  it  glories.  The  tutelary  angel,  so  gracefully 
painted  by  Sterne,  might  he  not  have  dropped  one  tear  on  the 
faults  of  a  noble  work,  as  on  the  errors  of  a  noble  life,  in  order 
to  efface  its  remembrance? 

I  shall  not  dwell  any  longer  on  the  productions  of  Schiller's 
youth ;  first,  because  they  are  translated  into  French ;  and, 
secondly,  because  in  them  he  has  not  yet  displayed  that  his- 
torical genius  which  has  rendered  him  so  justly  the  object  of 
admiration  in  the  tragedies  of  his  rnaturer  age.  Don  Carlos 
itself,  although  founded  on  an  historical  fact,  is  little  else  than  a 
work  of  the  imagination.  Its  plot  is  too  complicated ;  a  char- 


280  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

acter  of  mere  invention,  that  of  the  Marquis  de  Posa,  occupies 
a  too  prominent  part ;  the  tragedy  itself  may  be  classed  as 
something  between  history  and  poetry,  without  entirely  satis- 
fying the  rules  of  either :  it  is  certainly  otherwise  with  those 
of  which  I  am  now  about  to  attempt  giving  an  idea. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

WALLENSTEIN  AND    MARY    STUART. 

WALLENSTEIN  is  the  most  national  tragedy  that  has  ever 
been  represented  on  the  German  stage ;  the  beauty  of  the 
verses,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  subject,  transported  with  en- 
thusiasm all  the  spectators  at  Weimar,  where  it  was  first  per- 
formed, and  Germany  flattered  herself  with  possessing  a  new 
Shakspeare.  Lessing,  in  censuring  the  French  taste,  and  join- 
ing with  Diderot  in  the  manner  of  conceiving  dramatic  art,  had 
banished  poetry  from  the  theatre,  and  left  nothing  there  but 
romances  in  dialogue,  which  were  but  a  continuation  of  ordi- 
nary life,  only  crowding  together  in  representation  events 
which  are  of  less  frequent  occurrence  in  reality. 

Schiller  thought  of  bringing  on  the  stage  a  remarkable  cir- 
cumstance of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  that  civil  and  religious 
struggle,  which,  for  more  than  a  century,  fixed  in  Germany 
the  equilibrium  of  the  two  parties,  Protestant  and  Catholic. 
The  German  nation  is  so  divided,  that  it  is  never  known 
whether  the  exploits  of  the  one  half  are  a  misfortune  or  a 
glory  for  the  other ;  nevertheless,  the  Wallenstein  of  Schiller 
has  excited  an  equal  enthusiasm  in  all.  The  same  subject  is 
divided  into  three  distinct  plays;  the  Camp  of  Wallenstein, 
which  is  the  first  of  the  three,  represents  the  effects  of  war  on 
the  mass  of  the  people,  and  of  the  army ;  the  second,  the  Pic- 
colomini,  displays  the  political  causes  which  led  to  the  dissen- 
sions between  the  chiefs ;  and  the  third,  the  Death  of  Wallen- 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  ^bl 

stein,  is  the  result  of  the  enthusiasm  and  envy  which  the  repu- 
tation of  Wallenstein  had  excited. 

I  have  seen  them  perform  the  prologue,  entitled  the  Camp 
of  Wallenstein.  It  seemed  as  if  we  were  in  the  midst  of  an 
army,  and  of  an  army  of  partisans  much  more  ardent  and 
much  worse  disciplined  than  regular  troops.  The  peasants, 
the  recruits,  the  victualling  women,  the  soldiers,  all  contrib- 
uted to  the  effect  of  this  spectacle  ;  the  impression  it  produces 
is  so  warlike,  that  when  it  was  performed  on  the  stage  at  Ber- 
lin, before  the  officers  who  were  about  to  depart  for  the  army, 
shouts  of  enthusiasm  were  heard  on  every  side.  A  man  of 
letters  must  be  possessed  of  a  very  powerful  imagination  to 
figure  to  himself  so  completely  the  life  of  a  camp,  the  spirit  of 
independence,  the  turbulent  joy  excited  by  danger  itself.  Man, 
disengaged  from  all  his  ties,  without  regret  and  without  fore- 
sight, makes  of  years  a  single  day,  and  of  days  a  single  instant ; 
he  plays  for  all  he  possesses,  obeys  chance  under  the  form  of 
his  general :  death,  ever  present,  delivers  him  with  gayety  from 
the  cares  of  life.  Nothing,  in  the  Camp  of  Wallenstein,  is  more 
original  than  the  arrival  of  a  Capuchin  in  the  midst  of  the 
tumultuous  band  of  soldiers  who  think  they  are  defending  the 
Catholic  cause.  The  Capuchin  preaches  to  them  moderation 
and  justice  in  a  language  full  of  quibbles  and  puns,  which  differs 
from  that  of  camps  no  otherwise  than  by  its  affectation  and  the 
use  of  a  few  Latin  phrases :  the  grotesque  and  soldier-like  elo- 
quence of  the  priest,  the  rude  and  gross  language  of  those  who 
listen  to  him — all  this  presents  a  most  remarkable  picture  of  con- 
fusion. The  social  state  in  fermentation  exhibits  man  under  a 
singular  aspect :  all  his  savage  nature  reappears,  and  the  rem- 
nants of  civilization  float  like  a  wreck  upon  the  troubled  waves. 

The  Camp  of  Wallenstein  forms  an  ingenious  introduction 
to  the  two  other  pieces ;  it  penetrates  us  with  admiration  for 
the  general,  of  whom  the  soldiers  are  continually  talking,  in 
their  games  as  well  as  in  their  dangers ;  and  when  the  tragedy 
begins,  we  feel,  from  the  impressions  left  by  the  prologue  which 
has  preceded  it,  as  if  we  had  witnessed  the  history  which  poe- 
try is  about  to  embellish. 


28?,  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

The  second  of  the  pieces,  called  the  Piccolomini^  contains 
the  discords  which  arise  between  the  emperor  and  his  general, 
the  general  and  his  companion  in  arms,  when  the  chief  of  the 
army  wishes  to  substitute  his  personal  ambition  in  the  place  of 
the  authority  he  represents,  as  well  as  of  the  cause  he  supports. 
Wallenstein  was  fighting,  in  the  name  of  Austria,  against  the 
nations  who  were  attempting  to  introduce  the  Reformation 
into  Germany  ;  but,  seduced  by  the  hope  of  forming  to  himself 
an  independent  power,  he  seeks  to  appropriate  all  the  means 
which  he  ought  to  have  employed  in  the  public  service.  The 
generals  who  oppose  his  views,  thwart  them  not  out  of  virtue, 
but  out  of  jealousy  ;  and  in  these  cruel  struggles  everybody  is 
concerned  except  those  who  are  devoted  to  their  opinions,  and 
fighting  for  their  conscience'  sake.  People  will  say,  what  is 
there  in  all  this  to  excite  interest !  The  picture  of  truth.  Per- 
haps art  demands  the  modification  of  this  picture  by  the  rules 
of  theatrical  effect ;  yet  the  representation  of  history  on  the 
stage  is  always  delightful. 

Nevertheless,  Schiller  has  known  how  to  create  personages 
formed  to  excite  a  romantic  interest.  He  has  painted  Maxi- 
milian, Piccolomini,  and  Thecla,  as  heavenly  beings,  who  pass 
through  all  the  storms  of  political  passion,  preserving  love  and 
truth  in  their  souls.  Thecla  is  the  daughter  of  Wallenstein ; 
.Maximilian,  the  son  of  the  perfidious  friend  who  betrays  him. 
The  two  lovers,  in  spite  of  their  parents,  in  spite  of  fate,  and 
of  every  thing  except  their  own  hearts,  love,  seek  each  other, 
and  are  united  in  life  and  death.  These  two  beings  appear,  in 
the  midst  of  the  tumults  of  ambition,  as  if  predestined ;  they 
are  the  interesting  victims  which  heaven  has  elected  to  itself, 
and  nothing  is  so  beautiful  as  the  contrast  between  the  purest 
self-devotion  and  the  passions  of  men,  as  furiously  eager  for 
this  earth  as  if  it  were  their  only  inheritance. 

There  is  no  winding  up  of  the  tragedy  of  the  Piccolomini ; 
it  ends  like  a  conversation  broken  off.  The  French  would  find 
it  difficult  to  support  these  two  prologues,  the  one  burlesque 
and  the  other  serious,  which  lead  to  the  real  tragedy,  which  is 
the  Death  of  Wallenstein. 


TIIT-:   DKAHAS    OF    SCHILLER.  libd 

A  writer  of  great  genius  lias  reduced  the  Trttoyij  of  Schil- 
ler into  a  single  tragedy,  according  to  French  form  and  method. 
The  eulogies  and  criticisms  of  which  this  work  has  been  the 
object,  will  give  us  a  natural  opportunity  of  concluding  our 
estimate  of  the  differences  which  characterize  the  dramatic 
system  of  the  French  and  Germans.  The  French  writer  has 
been  censured  for  not  having  been  sufficiently  poetical  in  his 
verses.  Mythological  subjects  allow  all  the  brilliancy  of  ima- 
ges and  of  lyrical  inspiration ;  but  how  is  it  possible  to  admit, 
in  a  subject  drawn  from  modern  history,  t^e  poetry  of  the  re- 
cital of  Theramenes?  All  this  ancient  pujip  is  suitable  to 
the  family  of  Minos  or  Agamemnon,  but  would  be  only  ridicu- 
lous affectation  in  pieces  of  another  sort.  There  are  moments 
in  historical  tragedies,  at  which  the  elevation  of  the  soul  natu- 
rally inspires  a  more  elevated  tone  of  poetry :  such  is,  for 
example,  the  vision  of  Wallenstein,1  his  harangue  after  the 

1  "  II  est,  pour  les  mortels,  de  jours  mysterieux, 
Ou,  des  liens  du  corps  notre  ame  degagee, 
Au  sein  de  1'avenir  est  tout  a  coup  plongee, 
Et  saisit,  je  ne  sais  par  quel  henreux  effort, 
Le  droit  inattendu  d'interroger  le  sort. 
La  nuit  qui  preceda  la  sanglanto  journ^e 
Qui  du  heros  du  nord  trancha  la  destine'e, 
JQ  veillois  au  milieu  des  guerriers  endormis. 
Un  trouble  involontaire  agitoit  mes  esprits. 
Je  parcourus  le  camp.    On  voyoit  dans  la  plaine 
Briller  des  feux  lointains  la  lumiere  incertaine. 
Les  appels  de  la  garde  et  les  pas  des  chevaux 
Troubloient  seuls,  d'un  bruit  sourd,  1'universel  repos. 
Le  vent  qui  gemissoit  a  truvers  les  vallees 
Agitoit  lentement  nos  tentes  ebranlees. 
Les  astres,  a  regret  pedant  1'obscurit^, 
Versoient  sur  nos  drapeaux  une  pale  clarte'. 
Qne  de  mortels,  me  dis-je,  a  ma  voix  obeissent ! 
Qu'avec  empressement  sous  mon  ordre  ils  flechissent  I 
Us  ont,  sur  mes  succes,  place  tout  leur  espoir, 
Mais,  si  le  sort  jaloux  m'arrachoit  le  pouvoir, 
Que  bient6t  je  verrois  s'evanouir  leur  zele  1 
En  est-il  un  du  moins  qui  me  restat  fidele ! 
Ah !  s'il  en  est  un  seul,  je  t'invoque.    O  destin ! 
Daigne  me  1'indiquer  par  un  signe  certain." 

Waktein,  par  M.  Benjamin-Constant  de  Eebecque,  Acte  II.  sc.  1,  p.4a 


•tf  \TiAV~    PE    5TA.EL  ?    i>LSiLJLNT. 

mutiny,  his  mcro'.o^~e  be  to  re  his  death.  etc.  Still,  the  con- 
texture and  development  of  the  piece,  in  Genn:ir.  a?  "well  as  in 
French,  requires  a  simplicity  of  style,  in  which  one  perceives 
only  the  purity  of  language,  and  seldom  its  rriagniiicence.  In 
France  we  require  an  erTect  to  be  given,  not  only  to  every 
scene,  but  to  every  verse,  and  this  is  what  cannot  be  made  to 
agree  with  reality.  Nothing  is  so  easy  as  to  compose  what 
are  called  brilliant  verses ;  there  are  moulds  ready  made  for 
the  purpose :  but  what  is  very  difficult,  is  to  render  every  de- 
tail subordinate  to  the  whole,  and  to  find  every  part  united  in 
the  whole,  as  well  as  the  reflection  of  the  whole  in  every  part. 
French  vivacity  has  given  to  the  conduct  of  their  theatrical 
pieces  a  very  agreeable  rapidity  of  motion ;  but  it  is  injurious 
to  the  beauty  of  the  art  to  demand  the  succession  of  effect 
every  instant,  at  the  expense  of  the  general  impression. 

HUB  impatience,  which  brooks  no  delay,  TK  attended  by  a 
singular  patience  in  enduring  all  that  the  established  laws  of 
pHiyiieti  enjoin ;  and  when  any  sort  of  ennui  is  required  bj 
die  etiquette  of  art,  these  same  Frenchmen,  who  are  irritated 
by  the  least  prolixity,  tolerate  every  thing  out  of  respect  to 
caatom.  For  example,  explanations  by  way  of  recital  are  indis- 
pensable in  French  tragedy,  and  yet  certainly  they  are  much 
leas  interesting  than  when  conducted  by  means  of  action.  It 
it  said  that  some  l*Ji»»  spectators  once  called  out,  during  the 
recital  of  a  battle,  "  Let  them  raise  the  curtain,  that  we  may 
aee  die  battle  itself."  One  often  experiences  this  desire  at  the 
iipnaflrtarinn  of  oar  tragedies,  the  wish  of  being  present  at 
the  scene  which  is  related.  The  author  of  the  French  Wal- 
IfTuterm  was  obliged  to  throw  into  the  substance  of  his  play 
the  exposition  which  is  produced  in  so  original  a  manner  by 
the  prologue  of  tJu  Camp.  The  dignity  of  the  first  scenes 
perfectly  agrees  with  the  imposing  tone  of  French  tragedy ; 
but  there  is  a  sort  of  motion  in  the  irregularity  of  the  German, 
the  want  of  which  can  nerer  be  supplied. 

The  French  author  has  also  been  censured  for  the  double 
interest  inspired  by  the  lore  of  Alfred  (Piccolomini)  for  Thecla, 
and  die  conspiracy  of  WaBcmtcin.  In  France,  they  require 


THE    DEAi£A5    OF    SCHILLER. 

that  a  piece  be  entirely  of  love  or  entirely  cf  jolitzcs:  :h-; 
mixture  of  subjects  is  not  relished :  arid  for  a  coLV^ei&K-r 
time  past,  especially  when  the  subject  is  an  affair  or"  --:a:e.  they 
have  been  unable  to  comprehend  how  the  soul  shc-M  admit  a 
thought  of  any  thing  else.  Nevertheless  the  great  picture  of 
the  conspiracy  of  Wallenstein  is  only  completed  by  the  mis- 
fortunes which  it  brings  upon  his  family  :  we  are  to  be  remind- 
ed how  cruelly  public  events  may  rend  the  private  affections ; 
and  this  manner  of  representing  politics  as  a  world,  apart  from 
which  sentiments  are  banished,  is  prejudicial  to  morality, 
harsh,  and  destitute  of  dramatic  effect. 

A  circumstance  of  detail  has  been  much  censured  in  the 
French  tragedy.  Xobody  has  denied  that  the  farewell  of 
Alfred  (Max.  Piccolomini),  in  leaving  "Wallenstein  and  Thecla, 
is  extremely  beautiful ;  but  people  have  been  scandalized  at 
the  circumstance  of  music  being,  on  this  occasion,  introduced 
into  a  tragedy :  it  is,  to  be  sure,  very  easy  to  suppress  it,  but 
why  refuse  to  participate  in  the  effect  which  h  produces! 
When  we  hear  this  military  music,  the  prelude  to  the  battle, 
the  spectator  partakes  of  the  emotion  which  it  is  calculated 
to  excite  in  lovers,  whom  it  threatens  with  an  eternal  sep- 
aration :  the  music  gives  relief  to  the  situation ;  a  new  art 
redoubles  the  impression  which  another  has  prepared;  the 
tones  and  the  words  by  turns  awaken  our  imagination  and  our 
hearts. 

Two  scenes,  also,  entirely  new  to  our  stage,  have  excited  the 
astonishment  of  French  readers :  after  Alfred  has  killed  him- 
self, Thecla  asks  a  Saxon  officer,  who  brings  the  news,  all  the 
details  of  this  horrible  catastrophe;  and  when  her  soul  W» 
been  satiated  with  grief,  she  announces  the  resolution  she  Las 
taken  to  live  and  die  by  the  tomb  of  her  lover.  Every  expres- 
sion, every  word,  in  these  two  scenes,  is  marked  by  the  deepest 
sensibility ;  but  it  has  been  pretended  that  dramatic  interest 
can  no  longer  exist  when  there  is  no  longer  anv  nncertaintv. 
In  France,  they  always  hasten  to  conclude  with  what  is  irrepa- 
rable. The  Germans,  on  the  contrary,  are  more  curious  aboct 
what  their  personages  feel  than  about  what  happens  to  them ; 


286  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

they  are  not  afraid  to  dwell  upon  a  situation  terminated  in 
respect  of  its  being  an  event,  but  which  still  exists  in  the 
capacity  of  suffering.  More  of  poetry,  more  of  sensibility, 
more  of  nicety  in  the  expressions,  are  necessary  to  create  emo- 
tion during  the  repose  of  action,  than  while  it  excites  an  always 
increasing  anxiety :  words  are  hardly  remarked  when  facts 
keep  us  in  suspense ;  but  wrhen  all  is  silent,  excepting  grief, 
when  there  is  no  more  change  from  without,  and  the  interest 
attaches  itself  solely  to  what  passes  in  the  mind,  a  shade  of 
affectation,  a  word  out  of  place,  would  strike  like  a  false  note 
in  a  simple  and  melancholy  tune.  Nothing  then  escapes  by 
the  sound,  and  all  speaks  directly  to  the  heart. 

The  censure  which  has  been  most  frequently  repeated 
against  the  French  Wallenstein  is,  that  the  character  of  Wal- 
lenstein  himself  is  superstitious,  uncertain,  irresolute,  and  that 
it  does  not  agree  with  the  heroic  model  admitted  for  this  class 
of  character.  The  French  lose  an  infinite  source  of  effects  and 
emotions  in  reducing  their  tragic  characters,  like  the  notes  of 
music,  or  the  colors  of  the  prism,  to  some  striking  features 
always  the  same ;  every  personage  must  be  conformable  with 
some  one  of  the  principal  acknowledged  types.  Logic  may 
be  said  to  be  with  us  the  foundation  of  the  arts,  and  this  un- 
dulating (pndoyante)  nature  of  which  Montaigne  speaks,  is 
banished  from  our  tragedies;  nothing  is  there  admitted  but 
sentiments,  entirely  good  or  bad,  and  yet  there  is  nothing  that 
is  not  mixed  together  in  the  human  mind. 

In  France,  a  character  in  tragedy  is  as  much  canvassed  as 
that  of  a  minister  of  state,  and  they  censure  him  for  what  he 
does  or  for  what  he  omits  to  do,  as  if  they  were  judging  his 
actions  with  the  Gazette  in  their  hands.  The  inconsistencies 
of  the  passions  are  admitted  into  the  French  theatre,  but  not 
the  inconsistencies  of  characters.  Passion  being  more  or  less 
understood  by  every  heart,  we  can  follow  its  wanderings,  and 
anticipate  in  some  degree  its  very  contradictions ;  but  charac- 
ter has  always  something  unforeseen  in  it,  that  can  be  subjected 
to  no  fixed  rules.  Sometimes  it  directs  itself  towards  its 
end,  sometimes  strays  from  it.  When  it  is  said  of  a  per- 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLP:R.  X8j 

son  in  France,  that  lie  knows  not  what  he  wants,  iioboiy  is 
any  longer  interested  about  him  ;  while  it  is  precisely  the  man 
who  knows  not  what  he  wants  in  whom  nature  displays  her- 
self with  a  strength  and  an  independence  truly  proper  for 
tragedy. 

The  characters  of  Shakspeare  frequently  excite  very  differ- 
ent impressions  in  the  spectators  during  the  course  of  the 
same  play.  Richard  II,  in  the  three  first  acts  of  the  tragedy 
which  bears  his  name,  inspires  us  with  contempt  and  aversion, 
but  when  overtaken  by  misfortune  and  forced  to  resign  the 
throne  to  his  enemy  in  full  parliament,  his  situation  and  his 
courage  move  us  to  tears.  We  love  that  royal  nobleness  of 
character  which  reappears  in  adversity,  and  the  crown  still  seems 
to  hover  over  the  head  of  him  whom  they  have  stripped  of 
it  A  few  words  are  enough  for  Shakspeare  to  dispose  of  the 
souls  of  his  audience  and  make  them  pass  from  hatred  to  pity. 
The  innumerable  varieties  of  the  human  heart  incessantly  re- 
new the  springs  of  genius. 

It  may  be  said  that  men  are  really  inconsistent  and  whim- 
sical, and  that  the  noblest  virtues  are  often  united  with  mis- 
erable defects ;  but  such  characters  are  hardly  suitable  to  the 
theatre  ;  dramatic  art  demanding  rapidity  of  action,  men  can- 
not be  painted  on  this  canvas,  but  by  strong  touches  and 
striking  circumstances.  But  does  it  thence  follow  that  it  is 
necessary  to  confine  ourselves  to  characters  decidedly  good 
and  evil,  which  appear  to  be  the  invariable  elements  of  the 
greater  number  of  our  tragedies  ?  What  influence  could  the 
theatre  exercise  o^r  the  morality  of  the  spectators,  if  it  dis- 
played to  them  only  a  conventional  nature  ?  It  is  true  that 
on  this  factitious  soil  virtue  still  triumphs,  and  vice  is  always 
punished  ;  but  how  can  this  ever  apply  itself  to  what  passes  in 
life,  since  the  persons  that  are  presented  to  us  on  the  stage 
are  not  men  such  as  really  exist  ? 

It  would  be  curious  to  see  the  play  of  Wallenstein  perform- 
ed on  our  stage  ;  and  if  the  French  author  had  not  so  rigor- 
ously subjected  himself  to  the  rules  of  the  French  drama,  it 
would  be  still  more  curious  ;  but,  to  judge  rightly  of  the  spirit 


238  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

of  those  innovations,  we  should  carry  with  us  to  the  contem- 
plations of  art  a  youth  of  the  soul  eager  after  the  pleasures  of 
novelty.  To  adhere  to  the  masterpieces  of  the  ancients  is  an 
excellent  rule  of  taste,  but  not  for  the  exercise  of  genius ;  un- 
expected impressions  are  necessary  to  excite  it ;  the  works 
which  from  our  infancy,  we  have  known  by  heart,  become 
habitual  to  us,  and  no  longer  produce  any  striking  effect  upon 
the  imagination. 

Mary  Stuart  appears  to  me  the  most  pathetic  and  best  con- 
ceived of  all  the  German  tragedies.  The  fate  of  this  queen, 
who  began  her  life  in  such  prosperity,  who  lost  her  happi- 
ness through  so  many  errors,  and  who  was  led,  after  nineteen 
years  of  imprisonment,  to  the  scaffold,  causes  as  much  of 
terror  and  of  pity  as  (Edipus,  Orestes,  or  Niobe ;  but  the 
very  beauty  of  this  story,  so  favorable  to  genius,  would  crush 
mediocrity. 

The  scene  is  at  Fotheringay  Castle,  where  Mary  Stuart  is 
confined.  Her  nineteen  years  of  captivity  are  already  passed, 
and  the  tribunal  appointed  by  Elizabeth  is  on  the  point  of  de- 
ciding the  fate  of  the  unfortunate  Queen  of  Scotland.  Mary's 
nurse  complains  to  the  governor  of  the  castle,  of  the  treatment 
which  he  makes  his  prisoner  suffer.  The  governor,  strongly 
attached  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  speaks  of  Mary  with  harsh  se- 
verity. We  perceive  that  he  is  a  worthy  man  ;  but  one  who 
judges  Mary  as  her  enemies  have  judged  her.  He  announces 
her  approaching  death  ;  and  this  death  appears  to  him  to  be 
just,  because  he  believes  that  she  has  conspired  against 
Elizabeth.  » 

In  speaking  of  Wallenstein,  I  have  already  had  occasion  to 
notice  the  great  advantage  of  exposition  in  action.  Prologues, 
choruses,  confidants,  all  possible  methods  to  explain  without 
fatiguing,  have  been  resorted  to,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
best  of  all  is  to  enter  immediately  upon  the  action,  and  make 
known  the  principal  character  by  the  effect  which  it  produces 
upon  all  around.  It  is  to  teach  the  spectator  in  what  point 
of  view  he  is  to  regard  what  is  about  to  pass  before  him  ;  it  is 
to  teach  without  telling  it  him  ;  for  a  single  word  which  ap- 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLEK.  289 

pears  to  be  addressed  to  the  public,  destroys  the  illusion  of  the 
drama.  Our  curiosity  and  our  emotions  are  already  excited, 
when  Mary  Stuart  enters  ;  we  recognize  her,  not  by  a  portrait, 
but  by  her  influence  both  on  friends  and  enemies.  It  is  no 
longer  a  narrative  to  which  we  are  listening,  but  an  event 
which  seems  to  pass  immediately  before  our  eyes. 

The  character  of  Mary  Stuart  is  admirably  supported,  and 
never  ceases  to  interest  during  the  whole  performance.  Weak, 
passionate,  vain  of  her  person,  and  repentant  of  her  life,  we  at 
once  love  and  censure  her.  Her  remorse  and  her  errors  excite 
compassion ;  we  perceive,  throughout,  the  dominion  of  that 
admirable  beauty  so  celebrated  in  her  time.  A  man,  who 
forms  the  design  of  saving  her,  dares  to  avow,  that  he  devotes 
himself  for  her  only  from  the  enthusiasm  which  her  charms 
have  inspired.  Elizabeth  is  jealous  of  those  charms,  and  even 
Leicester,  the  favorite  of  Elizabeth,  has  become  the  lover  of 
Mary,  and  has  secretly  promised  her  his  support.  The  attrac- 
tion and  envy  which  are  produced  by  the  enchanting  graces 
of  this  unfortunate  woman,  render  her  fate  a  thousand  times 
more  affecting.  She  loves  Leicester :  this  unhappy  woman  ex- 
periences against  that  sentiment,  which  has  already  more  than 
once  dashed  her  cup  with  so  much  bitterness.  Her  almost 
supernatural  beauty  appears  to  be  the  cause  and  excuse  of  that 
habitual  intoxication  of  the  heart,  which  is  the  fatality  of  her 
existence. 

The  character  of  Elizabeth  excites  attention  in  a  very  differ- 
ent manner  :  a  female  tyrant  is  a  new  subject  for  painting*, 
The  littlenesses  of  women  in  general,  their  vanity,  their  desire 
of  pleasing,  in  short,  all  that  results  to  them  from  servitude, 
tends  to  despotism  in  Elizabeth,  and  that  dissimulation,  which 
is  born  of  weakness,  forms  one  of  the  instruments  of  her  abso- 
lute power.  Doubtless  all  tyrants  are  dissemblers.  Men  must 
be  deceived,  that  they  may  be  enslaved.  In  this  case,  they 
may  require  at  least  the  politeness  of  falsehood.  But  what 
distinguishes  the  character  of  Elizabeth,  is  the  desire  of  pleas- 
ing united  to  the  utmost  despotism  of  will,  and  all  that  is  most 
refined  in  the  self-love  of  a  woman,  manifested  by  the  most 
VOL.  I.— 18 


290  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

violent  acts  of  sovereign  authority.  The  courtiers,  also,  of  the 
queen  evince  a  sort  of  baseness  which  partakes  of  gallantry. 
They  wish  to  persuade  themselves  that  they  love  her,  in  order 
to  yield  to  her  a  more  noble  obedience,  and  to  conceal  the 
slavish  fear  of  a  subject,  under  the  semblance  of  knightly  sub- 
jection. 

Elizabeth  was  a  woman  of  great  genius.  The  lustre  of  hei 
reign  evinces  it.  Yet,  in  a  tragedy  which  represents  the  death 
of  Mary,  Elizabeth  can  appear  only  as  the  rival  who  causes  her 
prisoner  to  be  assassinated ;  and  the  crime  which  she  commits 
is  too  atrocious  not  to  efface  all  the  good  we  might  be  dis- 
posed to  say  of  her  political  genius.  It  might,  perhaps,  be  con- 
sidered as  a  still  further  perfection  in  Schiller,  to  have  had  the 
arc  of  rendering  Elizabeth  less  odious,  without  diminishing  our 
interest  for  Mary  Stuart ;  for  there  is  more  real  talent  in  the 
shades  of  contrast  than  in  the  extremes  of  opposition,  and  the 
principal  figure  itself  gains  by  none  of  the  figures  on  the  dra- 
matic canvas  being  sacrificed  to  it. 

Leicester  entreats  Elizabeth  to  see  Mary  ;  he  proposes  to 
her  to  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  hunting  party,  in  the  garden 
of  Fotheringay  Castle,  and  to  permit  Mary  to  walk  there. 
Elizabeth  consents,  and  the  third  act  opens  with  the  affecting 
joy  of  Mary  in  again  breathing  the  free  air,  after  nineteen 
years'  imprisonment.  All  the  risks  she  runs  have  vanished 
from  her  eyes ;  her  nurse  endeavors  in  vain  to  recall  them  to 
her,  to  moderate  her  transports.  Mary  has  forgotten  all,  in 
recovering  the  sight  of  the  sun,  and  of  nature.  She  feels 
again  the  happiness  of  childhood,  at  the  view,  new  to  her,  of 
the  flowers,  the  trees,  and  the  birds;  and  the  ineffable  impres- 
sion of  those  external  wonders  on  one  who  has  been  long  sepa- 
rated from  them,  is  pamteo  in  the  intoxicating  emotion  of  the 
;;nfortunate  captive.  The  remembrance  of  France  awakens  her 
to  delight,  she  cnarges  the  clouds  which  the  north  wind 
seems  to  impel  towards  that  happy  native  land  of  her  affection, 
— she  charges  them  to  bear  to  her  friends  her  regrets  and  de- 
sires. "  Go,"  she  says  to  them,  "  go,  you,  my  only  messen- 
gers !  the  free  air  is  your  inheritance — you  are  not  the  sub- 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLEE.  291 

jecls  of  Elizabeth."  '  She  perceives  in  the  distance  a  fisherman 
guiding  a  crazy  boat,  and  already  flatters  herself  with  the  idea 
of  escaping.  At  the  sight  of  the  heavens,  all  things  seem  to 
reanimate  her  with  hope. 

She  is  not  yet  informed  that  they  have  permitted  her  to 
leave  her  prison,  for  the  purpose  of  Elizabeth's  meeting  her. 
She  hears  the  music  of  the  hunt,  and  the  pleasures  of  her 
youth  are  retraced  to  her  imagination  as  she  listens  to  it.  She 
would  herself  mount  the  fiery  steed,  and  fly  with  the  rapidity 
of  lightning  over  vale  and  hill.  The  feeling  of  happiness  is 
revived  in  her,  without  reason  or  motive,  only  because  it  is  ne- 
cessary that  the  heart  should  breathe  again,  and  be  sometimes 
reanimated  on  a  sudden,  at  the  approach  of  the  greatest  calam- 
ities, even  as  there  is  almost  always  a  momentary  interval  of 
amendment  before  the  agony  of  death. 

They  come  to  inform  Mary  that  Elizabeth  is  approaching. 
She  had  wished  for  this  interview,  but  as  the  moment  draws 
near  a  shuddering  runs  through  all  her  frame.  Leicester  ac- 
companies Elizabeth :  thus  all  the  passions  of  Mary  are  at 
once  excited  :  she  commands  herself  for  a  time  ;  but  the  arro- 
gant Elizabeth  provokes  her  by  her  disdain,  and  the  two  ri- 
val queens  end  by  alike  abandoning  themselves  to  the  mutual 
hatred  which  they  experience.  Elizabeth  reproaches  Mary 
with  her  faults ;  Mary  recalls  to  her  mind  the  suspicions  of 
Henry  the  Eighth  against  her  mother,  and  what  had  been  said 
of  her  illegitimate  birth.  This  scene  is  singularly  fine,  on  this 
very  account — that  their  mutual  rage  makes  the  two  queens 
transgress  the  bounds  of  their  natural  dignity.  They  are  no 

1  The  passage  is  as  follows  : 

"  Fast  fleeting  clouds !  ye  meteors  that  fly ! 
Could  I  but  with  you  sail  through  the  sky ! 
Tenderly  greet  the  dear  land  of  my  youth ! 
Here  I  am  captive !  oppress' d  by  my  foes, 
No  other  than  you  may  carry  my  woes ! 
Froo  through  the  ether  your  pathway  is  seen, 
Ye  own  not  the  power  of  this  tyrant  queen  1" 

We  adopt  the  version  of  Joseph  Hellish,  Esq.,  which  has  been  revised 
for  Mr.  Bohn's  Standard  Library. — Ed. 


292  MADAME    DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

longer  any  other  than  two  women,  rivals  in  respect  of  beauty 
even  more  than  of  power ;  they  are  no  longer  the  one  a  sove- 
reign, and  the  other  a  prisoner ;  and  even  though  the  one  pos- 
sesses the  power  of  sending  the  other  to  the  scaffold,  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  two,  she  who  feels  that  she  is  most  made  to 
please,  enjoys  even  yet  the  pleasure  of  humbling  the  all-pow- 
erful Elizabeth  in  the  eyes  of  Leicester,  in  the  eyes  of  the  lover, 
who  is  so  dear  to  them  both. 

Another  circumstance  that  adds  greatly  to  the  effect  of  this 
situation,  is  the  fear  that  we  experience  for  Mary  at  every  re- 
sentful phrase  that  escapes  her ;  and  when  she  abandons  her- 
self to  all  her  fury,  her  injurious  speeches,  the  consequences  of 
•which  we  know  to  be  irreparable,  make  us  tremble,  as  if  we 
already  witnessed  her  death. 

The  emissaries  of  the  Catholic  party  form  the  design  of  assas- 
sinating Elizabeth  on  her  return  to  London.  Talbot,  the  most 
virtuous  of  the  queen's  friends,  disarms  the  assassin  who  at- 
tempts to  stab  her,  and  the  people  cry  out  aloud  for  the  blood 
of  Mary.  It  is  an  admirable  scene,  in  which  the  Chancellor 
Burleigh  presses  Elizabeth  to  sign  the  death-warrant  of  Mary, 
while  Talbot,  who  has  just  saved  the  life  of  his  sovereign, 
throws  himself  at  her  feet  to  implore  her  to  pardon  her  enemy  : 

"That  God,  whose  potent  hand  hath  thrice  preserved  thee, 
Who  lent  my  aged,  feeble  arm  the  strength 
To  overcome  the  madman  : — he  deserves 
Thy  confidence.     I  will  not  raise  the  voice 
Of  justice  now,  for  now  is  not  the  time  ; 
Thou  canst  not  hear  it  in  this  storm  of  passion. 
Yet  listen  but  to  this !  Thou  tremblest  now 
Before  this  living  Mary — tremble  rather 
Before  the  murder 'd,  the  beheaded  Mary. 
She  will  arise,  and  quit  her  grave,  will  range 
A  fiend  of  discord,  an  avenging  ghost, 
Around  thy  realm,  and  turn  thy  people's  hearts 
From  their  allegiance.     For  as  yet  the  Britons 
Hate  her,  because  they  fear  her  ;  but  most  surely 
Will  they  avenge  her,  when  she  is  no  more. 
They  will  no  more  behold  the  enemy 
Of  their  belief,  they  will  but  see  in  her 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  293 

The  much-lamented  issue  of  their  kings 

A  sacrifice  to  jealousy  and  hate. 

Then  quickly  shalt  thou  see  the  sudden  change 

When  thou  hast  done  the  bloody  deed  ;  then  go 

Through  London,  seek  thy  people,  which  till  now 

Around  thee  swarm'd  delighted  ;  thou  shalt  see 

Another  England,  and  another  people  ; 

For  then  no  more  the  godlike  dignity 

Of  Justice,  which  subdued  thy  subjects'  hearts, 

Will  beam  around  thee.     Fear,  the  dread  ally 

Of  tyranny,  will  shudd'ring  march  before  thee, 

And  make  a  wilderness  in  every  street — 

The  last,  extremest  crime  thou  hast  committed. 

What  head  is  safe,  if  the  anointed  fall  ?" 

The  answei  of  Elizabeth  to  this  discourse  is  a  speech  of  re- 
markable address ;  a  man  in  a  similar  situation  would  certainly 
have  employed  falsehood  to  palliate  injustice ;  but  Elizabeth 
does  more,  she  wishes  to  excite  interest,  even  in  abandoning 
herself  to  her  revenge ;  she  would  even,  if  possible,  inspire 
compassion  in  perpetrating  the  most  barbarous  action.  She 
has  the  spirit  of  a  sanguinary  coquetry,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
the  expression,  and  the  character  of  the  woman  discovers  it- 
self through  that  of  the  tyrant : 

"  Ah  !  Shrewsbury,  you  saved  my  life,  you  tum'd 
The  murd'rous  steel  aside  ;  why  let  you  not 
The  dagger  take  its  course  ?  then  all  these  broils 
Would  have  been  ended  ;  then,  released  from  doubt, 
And  free  from  blame,  I  should  be  now  at  rest 
In  my  still,  peaceful  grave.     In  very  sooth, 
I'm  weary  of  my  life,  and  of  my  crown. 
If  Heav'n  decree  that  one  of  us  two  queens 
Must  perish,  to  secure  the  other's  life — 
And  sure  it  must  be  so — why  should  not  I 
Be  she  who  yields  ?    My  people  must  decide ; 
I  give  them  back  the  sovereignty  they  gave. 
God  is  my  witness,  that  I  have  not  lived 
For  my  own  sake,  but  for  my  people's  welfare. 
If  they  expect  from  this  false,  fawning  Stuart, 
The  younger  sovereign,  more  happy  days, 
I  will  descend  with  pleasure  from  the  throne, 
Again  repair  to  Woodstock's  quiet  bowers, 


294  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

Where  once  I  spent  my  unambitious  youth  ; 
Where,  far  removed  from  all  the  vanities 
Of  earthly  power,  I  found  within  myself 
True  majesty.     I  am  not  made  to  rule — 
A  ruler  should  he  made  of  sterner  stuff  : 
My  heart  is  soft  and  tender.     I  have  govern'd, 
These  many  years,  this  kingdom  happily, 
But  then  I  only  needed  to  make  happy  : 
Now  comes  my  first  important  regal  duty, 
And  now  I  feel  how  weak  a  thing  I  am." 

At  this  sentence,  Burleigh  interrupts  Elizabeth,  and  re- 
proaches her  for  all  that  she  desires  to  be  reproached  with, — 
her  meekness,  her  indulgence,  her  compassion  ;  he  assumes  the 
appearance  of  courage,  in  demanding  of  his  sovereign  with 
vehemence,  that  which  she  secretly  desires  more  than  himself. 
Rough  flattery  generally  succeeds  better  than  obsequious  flat- 
tery ;  and  it  is  well  for  courtiers  when  they  are  able  to  give 
themselves  the  appearance  of  being  hurried  on,  at  the  moment 
when  they  most  deeply  reflect  upon  what  they  are  saying. 
Elizabeth  signs  the  warrant ;  and,  left  alone  with  her  private 
secretary,  the  woman's  timidity,  which  mixes  itself  with  the 
perseverance  of  despotism,  makes  her  desire  this  inferior  per- 
sonage to  take  upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  the  action 
which  she  is  committing.  He  requires  a  positive  order  for 
sending  the  warrant,  which  she  refuses,  repeating  that  he  must 
do  his  duty.  She  leaves  this  unfortunate  man  in  a  frightful 
state  of  uncertainty,  out  of  which  he  is  delivered  by  the  chan- 
cellor snatching  from  him  the  paper,  which  Elizabeth  has  left 
in  his  hands. 

Leicester  finds  himself  entangled  by  the  friends  of  the  Queen 
of  Scotland,  who  have  been  imploring  his  assistance  to  save 
her.  He  discovers  that  he  has  been  accused  to  Elizabeth,  and 
takes  on  a  sudden  the  shocking  resolution  of  abandoning  Mary, 
and  betraying  to  the  Queen  of  England,  with  impudent  artifice, 
a  part  of  the  secrets  which  he  owes  to  the  confidence  of  his 
unfortunate  friend.  Notwithstanding  all  these  unworthy  sacri- 
fices, he  only  half  succeeds  in  satisfying  Elizabeth  :  she  re- 
quires him  to  lead  Mary  to  the  scaffold  himself,  in  order  to 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLEE  295 

prove  that  he  does  not  love  her.  The  woman's  jealousy,  that 
discovers  itself  in  the  punishment  which  Elizabeth  commands 
as  a  monarch,  ought  to  inspire  Leicester  with  the  most  pro- 
found hatred  for  her.  The  queen  causes  him  to  tremble,  who, 
by  the  laws  of  nature,  should  have  been  her  master  ;  and  this 
singular  contrast  is  productive  of  a  very  original  situation. 
But  nothing  is  equal  to  the  fifth  act.  It  was  at  Weimar  that 
I  was  present  at  the  representation  of  Mary  Stuart,  and  I  can- 
not even  yet  remember,  without  deep  emotion,  the  effect  of 
the  concluding  scenes. 

At  first,  we  see  enter  Mary's  female  attendants,  dressed  in 
mourning,  and  in  profound  sorrow.  The  old  nurse,  the  most 
afflicted  of  all,  brings  in  her  royal  jewels,  which  she  has  order- 
ed her  to  collect  together,  that  she  may  distribute  them  among 
her  women.  The  governor  of  the  prison,  followed  by  many 
of  his  servants,  dressed  in  black  also,  as  well  as  himself,  fill 
the  stage  with  mourning.  Melvil,  formerly  a  gentleman  in 
Mary's  court,  arrives  from  Rome  at  this  moment.  Anne, 
the  queen's  nurse  receives  him  with  joy.  She  paints  to  him 
the  courage  of  Mary,  who,  all  at  once  resigned  to  her  fate,  is 
no  longer  occupied  by  the  concerns  of  her  soul,  and  is  only 
afflicted  at  not  having  been  able  to  obtain  a  priest  of  her  own 
religion,  to  receive  from  him  the  absolution  of  her  sins,  and  the 
holy  communion. 

The  nurse  relates  how,  during  the  night,  the  queen  and  she 
had  heard  the  sound  of  reiterated  blows ;  and  both  hoped  that 
it  arose  frorr  their  friends  endeavoring  to  effect  her  deliverance ; 
but  that  at  last  they  had  discovered  the  noise  to  proceed  from 
the  workmen,  who  were  erecting  the  scaffold  in  the  hall  under- 
neath. Melvil  inquires  how  Mary  supported  this  terrible  dis- 
covery ;  and  Anne  informs  him,  that  her  severest  trial  was  that 
of  learning  the  treason  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester ;  but  that,  after 
undergoing  this  shock,  she  had  recovered  the  composure  and 
the  dignity  of  a  queen.  Mary's  women  come  m  and  go  out, 
to  execute  their  mistress's  orders.  One  of  them  brings  a  cup 
of  wine,  which  Mary  has  called  for,  to  enable  her  to  walk  with 
a  firmer  step  to  the  scaffold.  Another  comes  tottering  upon 


296  MADAME    DK    STAEL?8    GERMANY. 

the  stage,  having  seen,  through  the  door  of  the  hall,  where  the 
execution  is  to  take  place,  the  walls  hung  with  black,  the  scaf- 
fold, the  block,  and  the  axe.  The  fear  of  the  spectator,  always 
increasing,  is  already  near  its  height,  when  Mary  appears  in  all 
the  magnificence  of  royal  ornament,  alone  clad  in  white  in  the 
midst  of  her  mourning  attendants,  with  a  crucifix  in  her  hand, 
a  crown  on  her  head,  and  already  irradiated  with  the  celestial 
pardon  which  her  misfortunes  have  obtained  for  her.  Mary 
comforts  her  women,  whose  sobs  affect  her  with  lively  emo- 
tion: 

"  Why  these  complaints  ?    Why  weep  ye  ?    Ye  should  rather 
Rejoice  with  me,  that  now  at  length,  the  end 
Of  my  long  woe  approaches  ;  that  my  shackles 
Fall  off,  iny  prison  opens,  and  my  soul 
Delighted,  mounts  on  seraph's  wings,  and  seeks 
The  land  of  everlasting  liberty. 
When  I  was  offer'd  up  to  the  oppression 
Of  my  proud  enemy,  was  forced  to  suffer 
Ignoble  taunts,  and  insults  most  unfitting 
A  free  and  sov' reign  queen,  then  was  the  time 
To  weep  for  me  ;  but,  as  an  earnest  friend, 
Beneficent  and  healing  Death  approaches. 
All  the  indignities  which  I  have  suffer'd 
On  earth,  are  cover'd  by  his  sable  wings. 
The  most  degraded  criminal's  ennobled 
By  his  last  suff  rings,  by  his  final  exit ; 
I  feel  again  the  crown  upon  my  brows, 
And  dignity  possess  my  swelling  soul." 

Mary  perceives  Melvil,  and  rejoices  at  seeing  him  in  this 
solemn  moment :  she  questions  him  about  her  kindred  in 
France,  about  her  ancient  servants,  and  charges  him  with  her 
last  adieu  to  all  that  was  dear  to  her : 

"  Bear  then,  sir,  my  blessing 
To  the  most  Christian  king,  my  royal  brother, 
And  the  whole  royal  family  of  France. 
I  bless  the  Cardinal,  my  honor' d  uncle, 
And  also  Henry  Guise,  my  noble  cousin. 
I  bless  the  holy  father,  the  vicegerent 
Of  Christ  on  earth,  who  will,  I  trust,  bless  me. 
I  bless  the  King  of  Spain,  who  nobly  offer'd 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCIIILLEK.  297 

Himself  as  my  deliv'rcr,  my  avenger. 

They  are  remember' d  in  my  ^vill :  I  hope 

That  they  will  not  despise,  how  poor  soe'er 

They  be,  the  presents  of  a  heart  which  loves  them." 

Mary  then  turns  aside  to  her  servants  and  says  to  them  : 

"  I  have  bequeathed  you  to  my  royal  brother 
Of  France  ;  he  will  protect  you,  he  will  give  you 
Another  country,  and  a  better  home  ; 
And  if  my  last  desire  have  any  weight. 
Stay  not  in  England  ;  let  no  haughty  Briton 
Glut  his  proud  heart  with  your  calamities, 
Nor  see  those  in  the  dust,  who  once  were  mine. 
Swear  by  this  image  of  our  sutFring  Lord, 
To  leave  this  fatal  land  when  I'm  no  more. 
MELVIL  (touching  the  crucifix). 

"  I  swear  obedience,  in  the  name  of  all." 

The  queen  distributes  her  jewels  among  her  women ;  and 
nothing  can  he  more  affecting  than  the  details  into  which  she 
enters  respecting  the  characters  of  each  of  them,  and  the  advice 
which  she  gives  them  for  their  future  conduct.  She  particu- 
larly displays  her  generosity  towards  one,  whose  husband  had 
been  a  traitor,  in  formerly  accusing  Mary  herself  before  Eliza- 
beth. She  tries  to  console  her  for  this  calamity,  and  to  prove 
to  her  that  she  retains  no  resentment  on  account  of  it. 

"The  worth  of  gold,  my  Anna,  charms  not  thee  ; 
Nor  the  magnificence  of  precious  stones : 
My  memory,  I  know,  will  be  to  thee 
The  dearest  jewel ;  take  this  handkerchief, 
I  work'd  it  for  thee,  in  the  hours  of  sorrow, 
With  my  own  hands,  and  my  hot  scalding  tears 
Are  woven  in  the  texture  :  you  will  bind 
My  eyes  with  this,  when  it  is  time  :  this  last 
Sad  service  I  would  wish  but  from  my  Anna. 
Come  all,  and  now  receive  my  last  farewell. 

[She  stretches  forth  her  hands,  the  WOMEN,  violently  weeping, 
fall  successively  at  her  feet,  and  kiss  her  outstretched  hand. 
Marg'ret,  farewell — my  Alice,  fare  thee  well ; 
Thanks,  Burgoyn,  for  thy  honest  faithful  service  — 
Thy  lips  are  hot,  my  Gertrude  :  I  have  been 
Much  hated,  yet  have  been  as  much  beloved. 


298  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

May  a  deserving  husband  bless  my  Gertrude, 
For  this  warm  glowing  heart  is  form'd  for  love. 
Bertha,  thy  choice  is  better,  thou  hadst  rather 
Become  the  chaste  and  pious  bride  of  Heav'n  ; — 
Oh !  haste  thee  to  fulfil  thy  vows  ;  the  goods 
Of  earth  are  all  deceitful ;—  thou  mayst  learn 
This  lesson  from  thy  queen.     No  more  ;  farewell, 
Farewell,  farewell,  my  friends,  farewell  forever." 

Mary  remains  alone  with  Melvil,  and  then  begins  a  scene, 
the  effect  of  which  is  very  grand,  however  it  may  be  open  to 
censure  in  many  respects.  The  only  grief  that  remains  to 
Mary,  after  she  had  provided  for  all  her  worldly  cares,  arises 
from  her  not  being  able  to  obtain  a  priest  of  her  own  religion 
to  assist  at  her  last  moments.  Melvil,  after  receiving  the 
secret  of  her  pious  sorrows,  informs  her  that  he  has  been  at 
Rome,  that  he  has  there  taken  orders  that  he  might  acquire 
the  right  of  absolving  and  comforting  her :  he  uncovers  his 
head,  to  show  her  the  holy  tonsure,  and  takes  out  of  his  bosom 
a  wafer,  which  the  Pope  himself  had  blessed  for  her : 

"  Is  then  a  heav'nly  happiness  prepared 
To  cheer  me  on  the  very  verge  of  death  ? 
As  an  immortal  one  on  golden  clouds 
Descends,  as  once  the  angel  from  on  high, 
Deliver' d  the  Apostle  from  his  fetters  : — 
He  scorns  all  bars,  he  scorns  the  soldier's  sword, 
He  steps  undaunted  through  the  bolted  portals, 
And  fills  the  dungeon  with  his  native  glory  ; 
Thus  here  the  messenger  of  Heav'n  appears, 
When  ev'ry  earthly  champion  had  deceived  me. 
And  you,  my  servant  once,  are  now  the  servant 
Of  the  Most  High,  and  his  immortal  ward  ! 
As  before  me  your  knees  were  wont  to  bend, 
Before  you  humbled,  now  I  kiss  the  dust. ' ' 

The  beautiful,  the  royal  Mary,  throws  herself  at  Melvil's 
feet;  and  her  subject,  invested  with  all  the  dignity  of  the 
Church,  suffers  her  to  remain  in  that  situation,  while  he  ex- 
amines her. 

(It  must  not  be  forgotten,  that  Melvil  himself  believed 
Mary  guilty  of  the  last  plot  against  the  life  of  Elizabeth.  I 


THE   DRAMAS   OF    SCHILLKR.  209 

should  add,  that  the  following  scene  should  only  be  read ;  and 
that,  on  most  of  the  German  stages,  they  suppress  the  act  of 
communion  in  the  representation  of  this  tragedy.) 

MEL Vil  (making  over  her  the  sign  of  the  cross.) 

"Hear,  Mary  Queen  of  Scotland  : — in  the  name 
Of  God  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost, 
Hast  thou  examined  carefully  thy  heart, 
Swear' st  thou,  art  thou  prepared  in  thy  confession 
To  speak  the  truth  before  the  God  of  truth  ? 

MARY. 
"  Before  my  God  and  thee,  my  heart  lies  open. 

MELVIL. 
"  What  calls  thee  to  the  presence  of  the  Highest  ? 

MART. 

4  I  humbly  do  acknowledge  to  have  err'd 
Most  grievously.    I  tremble  to  approach, 
Sullied  with  sin,  the  God  of  purity. 

MEL VIL. 

"  Declare  the  sin  which  weighs  so  heavily 
Upon  thy  conscience,  since  thy  last  confession. 

MAST. 

"  My  heart  was  fill'd  with  thoughts  of  envious  hate, 
And  vengeance  took  possession  of  my  bosom. 
I  hope  forgiveness  of  my  sins  from  God, 
Yet  could  I  not  forgive  my  enemy. 

MELVII,. 

"  Repent' st  thou  of  the  sin  ?    Art  thou,  in  sooth, 
Resolved  to  leave  this  world  at  peace  with  all  ? 

MART. 
"  As  surely  as  I  wish  the  joys  of  heav'n. 

MELVIL. 
"What  other  sin  hath  arm'd  thy  heart  against  thee? 


300  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

MARY. 

"  Ah  !  not  alone  through  hate  ;  through  lawless  love 
Have  I  still  more  abused  the  sovereign  good. 
My  heart  was  vainly  turn'd  towards  the  man, 
Who  left  me  in  misfortune,  who  deceived  me. 

MELVIL. 

"  Kepent'st  thou  of  the  sin  ?    And  hast  thou  turn'd 
Thy  heart,  from  this  idolatry,  to  God  ? 

MARY. 

"  It  was  the  hardest  trial  I  have  pass'  d  ; 
This  last  of  earthly  bonds  is  torn  asunder. 

MELVIL. 

"  What  other  sin  disturbs  thy  guilty  conscience  ? 
MARY. 

"  A  bloody  crime,  indeed  of  ancient  date, 
And  long  ago  confess'd  ;  yet  with  new  terrors 
It  now  attacks  me,  black  and  grisly  steps 
Across  my  path,  and  shuts  the  gates  of  heav'n  : 
By  my  connivance  fell  the  king,  my  hushand — 
I  gave  my  hand  and  heart  to  a  seducer — 
By  rigid  penance  I  have  made  atonement ; 
Yet  in  my  soul  the  worm  is  gnawing  still. 

MELVIL. 

*'  Has  then  thy  heart  no  other  accusation, 
Which  hath  not  been  confess'd  and  wash'd  away? 

MARY. 

"All  you  have  heard,  with  which  my  heart  is  charged 
MELVIL. 

u  Think  on  the  presence  of  Omniscience  ; 
Think  on  the  punishments,  with  which  the  Church 
Threatens  imperfect  and  reserved  confession  ! 
This  is  the  sin  to  everlasting  death, 
For  this  is  sinning  'gainst  his  Holy  Spirit. 

MARY. 

"  So  may  eternal  grace  with  victory 
Crown  my  last  contest,  as  I  wittingly 
Have  nothing  hid — 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  301 

MELVIL. 

"How?     Wilt  thou  then  conceal 
The  crime  from  God,  for  which  thou  art  condemn' d  ? 
Thou  tell'st  me  nothing  of  the  share  thou  hadst 
In  Babington  and  Parry's  bloody  treason  : 
Thou  diest  for  this  a  temporal  death  ;  for  this 
Wilt  thou  too  die  the  everlasting  death  ? 

MARY. 

"  I  am  prepared  to  meet  eternity ; 
Within  the  narrow  limits  of  an  hour, 
I  shall  appear  before  my  Judge's  throne  ; 
But,  I  repeat  it,  my  confession's  ended. 

MELVIL. 

"  Consider  well — the  heart  is  a  deceiver. 
Thou  hast  perhaps,  with  sly  equivocation, 
The  word  avoided  which  would  make  thee  guilty, 
Although  thy  will  was  party  to  the  crime. 
Remember,  that  no  juggler's  tricks  can  blind 
The  eye  of  fire  which  darts  through  ev'ry  breast. 

MART. 

"  'Tis  true,  that  I  have  call'd  upon  all  princes 
To  free  me  from  unworthy  chains  ;  yet  'tis 
As  true,  that  neither  by  intent  or  deed, 
Have  I  attempted  my  oppressor's  life. 

MELVIL. 
"Your  secretaries  then  have  witness' d  falsely. 

MART. 

"It  is,  as  I  have  said  ; — what  they  have  witness'd 
The  Lord  will  judge. 

MELVIL. 

"Thou  mount' st  then,  satisfied 
Of  thy  own  innocence,  the  fatal  scaffold  ? 

MART. 

"  God  suffers  me  in  mercy  to  atone, 
By  undeserved  death,  my  youth's  transgressions. 


302  MADAME   DE    STAEL5S    GERMANY. 

MELVIL  (making  over  her  the  sign  of  the  cross), 

"  Go,  then,  and  expiate  them  all  by  death  ; 
Sink  a  devoted  victim  on  the  altar, 
Thus  shall  thy  blood  atone  the  blood  thou'st  spilt. 
From  female  frailty  were  derived  thy  faults, 
Free  from  the  weakness  of  mortality, 
The  spotless  spirit  seeks  the  blest  abodes. 
Now  then,  by  the  authority  which  God 
Hath  unto  me  committed,  I  absolve  thee 
From  all  thy  sins — be  as  thy  faith  thy  welfare ! 

[He  gives  her  the  host. 
Receive  the  body  which  for  thee  was  offer 'd — 

[He  takes  the  cup  which  stands  upon  the  table,  consecrates  it 

with  silent  prayer,  then  presents  it  to  her ;  slie  hesitates  to 

take  it,  and  makes  signs  to  him  to  withdraw  it. 
Receive  the  blood,  which  for  thy  sins  was  shed— 
Receive  it — 'tis  allow'd  thee  by  the  Pope, 
To  exercise  in  death  the  highest  office 
Of  kings,  the  holy  office  of  the  priesthood. 

[She  takes  the  cup. 

And  as  thou  now  in  this  his  earthly  body 
Hast  held  with  God  mysterious  communion, 
So  mayst  thou  henceforth,  in  his  realm  of  joy, 
Where  sin  no  more  exists,  nor  tears  of  woe, 
A  fair  transfigured  spirit,  join  thyself 
Forever  with  the  Godhead,  and  forever. 

[He  sets  down  the  cup  ;  hearing  a  noise,  he  covers  his  head,  and 

goes  to  the  door ;  Mary  remains  in  silent  devotion,  on  her 

knees. 

MELTIL  (returning). 

"  A  painful  conflict  is  in  store  for  thee  ; 
Feel'st  thou  within  thee  strength  enough  to  smother 
Each  impulse  of  malignity  and  hate  ? 

MART. 

"  I  fear  not  a  relapse.    I  have  to  God 
Devoted  both  my  hatred,  and  my  love. 

MELVH.. 

"  Well,  then,  prepare  thee  to  receive  my  Lords 
Of  Leicester  and  of  Burleigh.     They  are  here. 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  303 

SCENE  VIII. 
Enter  BURLEIGH,  LEICESTER,  and  PAULET. 

[LEICESTER  remains  in  the  background,  without  raising 
his  eyes  ;  BURLEIGH,  who  remarks  his  confusion,  steps 
between  him  and  the  QUEEN. 

BURLEIGH. 

"  I  come,  my  Lady  Stuart,  to  receive 
Your  last  commands  and  wishes. 

MART. 
"  Thanks,  my  lord. 

BURLEIGH. 

"  It  is  the  pleasure  of  my  royal  mistress, 
That  nothing  reasonable  be  denied  you. 

MART. 

"  My  will,  my  lord,  declares  my  last  desires  ; 
I've  placed  it  in  the  hand  of  Sir  Amias, 
And  humbly  beg,  that  it  may  be  fulfill'd. 

PAULBT. 
"  You  may  rely  on  this. 

MART. 

"I  beg  that  all 

My  servants  unmolested  may  return 
To  France,  or  Scotland,  as  their  wishes  lead. 

BURLEIGH. 
"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish. 

MART. 

"And  since  my  body 
Is  not  to  rest  in  consecrated  ground, 
I  pray  you  suffer  this  my  faithful  servant 
To  bear  my  heart  to  France,  to  my  relations—- 
Alas !  'twas  ever  there. 

BURLEIGH. 

"  It  shall  be  done. 
What  wishes  else  ? 

MART. 

"  Unto  her  Majesty 
Of  England  bear  a  sister's  salutation  ; 


304:  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

Tell  her,  that  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  pardon  her  my  death  :  most  humbly  too 

I  crave  her  to  forgive  me  for  the  passion 

With  which  I  spoke  to  her.     May  God  preserve  her, 

And  bless  her  with  a  long  and  prosp'  rous  reign  ! 

BURLEIGH. 

"  Say,  do  you  still  adhere  to  your  resolve, 
And  still  refuse  assistance  from  the  Dean  ? 

MART. 

"My  lord,  I've  made  my  peace  with  God. 

[2b  PAULKT.    Good  sir, 

I  have  unwittingly  caused  you  much  sorrow, — • 
Bereft  you  of  your  age's  only  stay. 
Oh,  let  me  hope  you  do  not  hate  my  name. 

PAULET  (giving  her  his  hand). 
"  The  Lord  be  with  you  !  go  your  way  in  peace. 

SCENE  IX. 

[ANNA  KENNEDY,  and  the  other  women  of  the  QUEEN,  crowd 
into  the  room,  with  marks  of  horror.  The  SHERIFF  follows 
them,  a  white  staff  in  his  hand;  behind  are  seen,  through  the 
open  doors,  men  under  arms. 

MART. 

"  What  ails  thee,  Anna  f    Yes — my  hour  is  come — 
The  Sheriff  comes  to  lead  me  to  my  fate, 
And  part  we  must — farewell ! 

KENNBDT. 

"  We  will  not  leave  tliee, 
We  will  not  part  from  thee. 

MART  (to  MELVIL). 

' '  You,  worthy  sir, 

And  my  dear  faithful  Anna,  shall  attend  me 
In  my  last  moments.     I  am  sure,  my  lord 
Will  not  refuse  my  heart  this  consolation. 

BURLEIGH. 

"  For  this  I  have  no  warrant. 
MART. 

"  How,  my  lord  ; 
Can  you  deny  me  then  this  small  petition  ? 


THE   DKAMAS   OF    SCHILLEK.  305 

Respect  my  sex ;  who  shall  attend  me  else, 

And  yield  me  the  last  service  ? — sure  it  never 

Can  be  my  sister's  pleasure,  that  in  me 

My  sex  should  be  insulted  ;  that  these  men, 

With  their  rude  bauds,  should  touch  my  royal  person. 

BURLEIGH. 

"  "Pis  order'd  that  no  woman  shall  ascend 
The  scaffold  steps  with  you  ;  their  tears  and  moans — 

MARY. 

"  She  shall  not  weep,  my  lord,  she  shall  not  moan  ; 
I  answer  for  my  Anna's  resolution  ; 
Be  merciful ;  divide  me  not  so  soon 
From  my  true  foster-mother,  from  my  friend. 
She  bore  me  on  her  arms  into  this  life, 
Let  her  then  gently  lead  me  to  my  death. 

PAULET  (to  BURLEIGH). 
"  Yield  to  her  wishes. 

BURLEIGH. 

"Be  it  so. 

MARY. 

"  I  now 
Have  nothing  in  this  world  to  wish  for  more. 

[She  takes  the  crucifix,  and  kisses  it. 
My  God  !  my  Comforter !  my  blest  Redeemer ! 
As  once  thy  arms  were  stretch'd  upon  the  cross, 
Let  them  be  now  extended  to  receive  me  ! 

[She  turns  round  to  go,  at  the  same  moment  her  eyes  fall  upon 
LEICESTER,  who,  on  her  going,  starts  involuntary  and  turn» 
his  eyes  towards  her :  at  this  sight  MARY  trembles,  her  knees 
fail  her,  she  is  about  to  fall,  when  LEICESTER  catches  at  her, 
and  receives  her  in  his  arms  ;  she  regards  him  for  some  time 
earnestly,  and  in  silence;  he  cannot  support  her  looks;  at 
length  she  speaks. 

You  keep  your  word,  my  Lord  of  Leicester  :  for 
You  promised  me  your  arm  to  lead  me  forth 
From  prison,  and  you  lend  it  to  me  now. 
At  length  the  wish'd  for  day  is  come,  and  what 
Was  oft  the  object  of  my  fondest  dreams 
Is  now  accomplish' d  :  and  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
The  long-expected,  the  long- wish'd  for  friend, 
Appears  at  length  in  Fotheringay  Castle. 


306  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

I  see  him  standing  in  my  prison  :  all 
Is  ready  for  the  journey  ;  all  the  gates 
Stand  open,  and  at  length  I  cross  the  threshold, 
Conducted  by  his  hand  ;  and  now  I  leave 
These  dismal  walls  behind  me.  and  forever. 
All  is  fulfill'd.  and  you  have  saved  your  honor. 

[He  stands  as  if  annihilated ;  she  continues,  icith  a  gentle  voice. 
Yes,  Leicester  ;  not  for  liberty  alone 
I  wish'd  to  be  indebted  to  your  hands. 
You  should  have  made  me  bless  that  liberty. 
Led  by  your  hand,  and  happy  in  your  love, 
I  hoped  once  more  to  taste  the  joys  of  life. 
Yes  :  now  that  I'm  prepared  from  all  the  world 
To  part,  and  to  become  a  happy  spirit, 
Whom  earthly  inclinations  tempt  no  more, 
Now,  Leicester,  I  may  venture  to  confess 
Without  a  blush,  the  frailty  I  have  conquer'd — 
Farewell,  my  lord  ;  and.  if  you  can,  be  happy  ! 
To  woo  two  queens  has  been  your  daring  aim  ; 
You  have  disdain'd  a  tender,  loving  heart ; 
Betray 'd  it,  in  the  hope  to  win  a  proud  one  : 
Kneel  at  the  feet  of  Queen  Elizabeth ! 
May  your  reward  not  prove  your  punishment. 
Farewell !  I  now  have  nothing  more  on  earth." 

Leicester  remains  alone  after  the  departure  of  Mary,  the 
feeling  of  despair  and  shame  that  overwhelms  him  can  hardly 
be  expressed ;  he  listens,  he  hears  all  that  is  passing  in  the 
hall  of  execution,  and,  when  the  business  is  ended,  he  falls 
senseless  on  the  ground.  We  are  afterwards  told  that  he  is 
gone  to  France,  and  the  grief  of  Elizabeth  at  the  loss  of  her 
lover  is  the  beginning  of  her  punishment. 

I  shall  make  some  observations  on  this  imperfect  analysis  of 
a  piece,  in  which  the  charm  of  the  verse  adds  greatly  to  its 
other  merits.  I  hardly  know  if  they  would  permit,  in  France, 
an  entire  act  on  one  decisive  situation ;  but  that  repose  of 
grief,  which  springs  from  the  very  privation  of  hope,  produces 
the  truest  and  the  most  profound  emotions.  This  solemn  re- 
pose permits  the  spectator,  as  well  as  the  victim,  to  descend 
into  himself,  and  feel  all  that  misery  reveals  to  him. 

The  scene  of  the  confession,  and  above  all,  that  of  the  com- 
munion, would  be  condemned  altogether,  and  with  reason; 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  307 

but  it  is  certainly  not  for  want  of  effect  that  it  would  be  cen- 
sured :  the  pathetic  never  touches  the  heart  more  nearly  than 
when  founded  on  the  national  religion.  The  most  Catholic 
country  in  Europe,  Spain,  and  its  most  religious  poet,  Calderon, 
who  had  himself  entered  into  the  ecclesiastical  order,  have  ad- 
mitted as  subjects  for  the  stage,  the  ceremonies  of  Christianity. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  without  being  at  all  wanting  in  the  rev- 
ence  which  we  owe  to  the  Christian  religion,  we  may  suffer  it 
to  enter  into  poetry  and  the  fine  arts,  into  all  that  elevates  the 
soul,  and  embellishes  life.  To  exclude  it  from  these,  is  to  imi- 
tate children  who  think  they  can  do  nothing  but  what  is  sad 
and  solemn  in  their  father's  house.  There  is  a  religion  in 
every  thing  that  occasions  a  disinterested  emotion  of  the  mind ; 
poetry,  love,  nature,  and  the  Divinity  itself,  are  connected  to- 
gether in  the  heart,  whatever  efforts  we  may  make  to  separate 
them ;  and,  if  genius  is  prohibited  from  sounding  all  these 
strings  at  once,  the  full  harmony  of  the  soul  will  never  be  heard. 

This  very  Mary  whom  France  beheld  so  brilliant,  and  En- 
gland so  unhappy,  has  been  the  subject  of  a  thousand  different 
poems,  celebrating  her  charms  and  her  misfortunes.  History 
has  painted  her  as  sufficiently  light ;  Schiller  has  thrown  more 
of  the  serious  into  her  character,  and  the  period  at  which  he 
brings  her  forward  may  well  account  for  the  change.  Twenty 
years  of  imprisonment,  even  twenty  years  of  existence,  in  what- 
ever manner  they  have  been  spent,  are  generally  a  severe  lesson. 

The  adieu  of  Mary  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester  appears  to  me 
to  be  one  of  the  finest  situations  to  be  met  with  on  the  stage. 

O 

There  is  some  sweetness  for  her  in  that  trying  moment.  She 
has  a  compassion  for  Leicester,  all  guilty  as  he  is ;  she  feels 
what  a  remembrance  she  bequeathes  to  him,  and  this  vengeance 
of  the  heart  is  not  prohibited.  In  short,  at  the  moment  of 
death,  of  a  death,  the  consequence  of  his  refusal  to  save  her, 
she  again  says  to  him  that  she  loves  him ;  and  if  any  thing 
can  console  the  mind  under  the  terrible  separation  to  which 
we  are  doomed  by  death,  it  is  the  solemnity  which  it  gives  to 
our  parting  words :  no  end,  no  hope,  can  mingle  with  them, 
and  the  purest  truth  is  exhaled  from  our  bosoms  with  life. 


308  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

JOAN    OF    ARC1    AND    THE    BRIDE    OF    MESSINA. 

SCHILLER,  in  a  copy  of  verses  full  of  grace,  reproaches  the 
French  with  ingratitude  towards  Joan  of  Arc.  One  of  the 
noblest  epochs  of  history,  that  in  which  France,  and  her  king, 
Charles  the  Seventh,  were  rescued  from  the  yoke  of  foreign- 
ers, has  never  yet  been  celebrated  by  any  writer  worthy  of 
effacing  the  remembrance  of  Voltaire's  poem  ;  and  it  is  a  stran- 
ger that  has  attempted  to  re-establish  the  glory  of  a  French 
heroine,  of  a  heroine  whose  unhappy  fate  might  interest  us  in 
her  favor,  even  though  her  exploits  did  not  excite  our  just  en- 
thusiasm. Shakspeare  could  not  judge  of  Joan  of  Arc  but 
with  the  partiality  of  an  Englishman ;  yet  even  he  represents 
her,  in  his  historical  play  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  as  having  been 
at  first  inspired  by  heaven,  and  subsequently  corrupted  by  the 
demon  of  ambition.  Thus,  the  French  only  have  suffered  her 
memory  to  be  dishonored.  It  is  a  great  fault  of  our  nation,  to 
be  incapable  of  resisting  the  ridiculous,  when  presented  to  us 
under  a  striking  form.  Yet,  is  there  so  much  room  in  the 
world  for  the  serious  and  the  gay  together,  that  we  might  im- 
pose it  upon  ourselves  as  a  law,  never  to  trifle  with  what  is 
worthy  of  our  veneration,  and  yet  lose  nothing,  by  doing  so, 
of  the  freedom  of  pleasantry. 

The  subject  of  Joan  of  Arc  partaking  at  once  of  the  his- 
torical and  the  marvellous,  Schiller  has  intermingled  in  his 
play,  pieces  of  lyrical  poetry,  and  the  mixture  produces  a  fine 
effect,  even  in  representation.  We  have  hardly  any  thing  in 
the  French  language,  except  the  Monologue  of  Polyeucte,  and 
the  Choruses  of  Athalie  and  Esther,  that  can  give  us  any  idea 

»  The  play  of  Schiller  is  entitled  the  Maid  of  Orleant. — Ed. 


THE   DKAMAS   OF   SC1IILLEK.  309 

of  it.  Dramatic  poetry  is  inseparable  from  the  situation 
which  it  is  required  to  paint;  it  is  recitation  in  action,  the 
conflict  of  man  with  fate.  Lyrical  poetry  is  almost  always 
suited  to  religious  subjects;  it  raises  the  soul  towards  heaven  ; 
it  expresses  I  know  not  what  of  sublime  resignation,  which 
often  seizes  on  us  in  the  midst  of  the  most  tumultuous  passions, 
and  delivers  us  from  our  personal  disquietudes,  to  give  us  for 
an  instant  the  taste  of  divine  peace. 

No  doubt  we  must  take  care  that  the  progressive  advance 
of  the  interest  shall  not  suffer  by  it ;  but  the  end  of  dramatic 
art  is  not  simply  to  inform  us  whether  the  hero  is  killed,  or 
whether  he  marries :  the  principal  object  of  the  events  repre- 
sented, is  to  serve  to  develop  sentiments  and  characters.  The 
poet  is  in  the  right,  therefore,  sometimes  to  suspend  the  action 
of  the  theatre,  to  make  us  listen  to  the  heavenly  music  of  the 
soul.  We  may  abstract  ourselves  in  art,  as  in  life,  and  soar 
for  a  moment  above  all  that  passes  within  us  and  around  us. 

The  historical  epoch  at  which  Joan  of  Arc  existed,  is  pecu- 
liarly proper  to  display  the  French  character  in  all  its  beauty, 
when  an  unalterable  faith,  an  unbounded  reverence  for  women, 
an  almost  imprudent  generosity  in  war,  signalized  this  nation 
throughout  Europe. 

We  must  picture  to  ourselves  a  young  girl  of  sixteen,  of  a 
majestic  form,  but  with  still  infantine  features,  a  delicate  ex- 
terior, and  without  any  strength  but  that  which  comes  to  her 
from  on  high ;  inspired  by  religion,  poetical  in  her  actions, 
poetical  also  in  her  speech,  when  animated  by  the  divine  spirit ; 
showing  in  her  discourses,  sometimes  an  admirable  genius,  at 
others  an  absolute  ignorance  of  all  that  heaven  has  not  reveal- 
ed to  her.  It  is  thus  that  Schiller  has  conceived  the  part  of 
Joan  of  Arc.  He  first  shows  her  at  Vaucouleurs,  in  the  rustic 
habitation  of  her  father,  where  she  hears  of  the  misfortunes  of 
France,  and  is  inflamed  by  the  recital.  Her  aged  father  blames 
her  sadness,  her  thoughtfulness,  her  enthusiasm.  Unaccus- 
tomed to  penetrate  the  secret  of  what  is  extraordinary,  he 
thinks  that  there  is  evil  in  all  that  is  not  habitual  to  him.  A 
countryman  brings  in  a  helmet,  which  a  gipsey  had  put  into 


310  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GEEMAXY. 

his  hands  in  a  very  mysterious  manner.  Joan  of  Arc  snatches 
it  from  him,  and  places  it  on  her  own  head,  while  her  family 
contemplate  with  astonishment  the  expression  of  her  eyes. 

She  prophecies  the  triumph  of  France,  and  the  defeat  of  her 
enemies.  A  peasant,  an  esprit  fort,  tells  her  that  there  are  no 
longer  any  miracles  in  the  world.  She  exclaims  : 

"  Yes,  there  shall  yet  be  one  :  a  snow-white  dove 
Shall  fly,  and,  with  the  eagle's  boldness,  tear 
The  birds  of  prey  which  rend  her  fatherland. 
She  shall  o'erthrow  this  haughty  Burgundy, 
Betrayer  of  the  kingdom  ;  Talbot,  too, 
The  hundred- handed,  heaven-defying  scourge  ; 
This  Sal'sbury,  who  violates  our  fanes, 
And  all  these  island  robbers  shall  she  drive 
Before  her  like  a  flock  of  timid  lambs. 
The  Lord  will  be  with  her,  the  God  of  battle  ; 
A  weak  and  trembling  creature  he  will  choose, 
And  through  a  tender  maid  proclaim  his  power, 
For  He  u  the  Almighty  !"1 

The  sisters  of  Joan  of  Arc  retire  to  a  distance,  and  her 
father  orders  her  to  busy  herself  in  her  rural  labors,  and  re- 
main a  stranger  to  those  great  events  with  which  poor  shep- 
herds have  nothing  to  do.  He  goes  out,  Joan  of  Arc  remains 
alone  :  about  to  depart  forever  from  the  abode  of  her  infancy, 
a  feeling  of  regret  seizes  her,  and  she  says : 

"  Farewell,  ye  mountains,  ye  beloved  glades, 
Ye  lone  and  peaceful  valleys,  fare  ye  well ! 
Through  you  Johanna  never  more  may  stray ! 
For  aye,  Johanna  bids  you  now  farewell. 
Ye  meads  which  I  have  water' d,  and  ye  trees 
Which  I  have  planted,  still  in  beauty  bloom  ! 
Farewell,  ye  grottoes,  and  ye  crystal  springs  ! 
Sweet  echo,  vocal  spirit  of  the  vale, 
Who  sang'st  responsive  to  my  simple  strain, 
Johanna  goes,  and  ne'er  returns  again. 

"  Ye  scenes  where  all  my  tranquil  joys  I  knew, 
Forever  now  I  leave  you  far  behind  ! 

*  This,  and  other  quotations  from  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  we  give  in  the 
translation  of  Miss  Anna  Swanwick,  from  Bohn's  Standard  Library. — Ed, 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCIIILLKE.  311 

Poor  foldless  lambs,  no  shepherd  now  have  you  ! 
O'er  the  wide  heath  stray  henceforth  unconfined  ; 
For  I  to  danger's  field,  of  crimson  hue, 
Am  summon' d  hence,  another  flock  to  find. 
Such  is  to  me  the  Spirit's  high  behest ; 
No  earthly  vain  ambition  fires  my  breast. 

"  For  who  in  glory  did  on  Horeb's  height 
Descend  to  Moses  in  the  bush  of  flame, 
And  bade  him  go  and  stand  in  Pharaoh's  sight, — 
Who  once  to  Israel's  pious  shepherd  came, 
And  sent  him  forth,  his  champion  in  the  fight, — 
Who  aye  hath  loved  the  lowly  shepherd  train, — 
He,  from  these  leafy  boughs,  thus  spake  to  me  : 
'  Go  forth  !     Thou  shalt  on  earth  my  witness  be. 

"  '  Thou  in  rude  armor  must  thy  limbs  invest, 
A  plate  of  steel  upon  thy  bosom  wear  ; 
Vain  earthly  love  may  never  stir  thy  breast, 
Nor  passion's  sinful  glow  be  kindled  there. 
Ne'er  with  the  bride-wreath  shall  thy  locks  be  dress'd, 
Nor  on  thy  bosom  bloom  an  infant  fair ; 
But  war's  triumphant  glory  shall  be  thine  ; 
Thy  martial  fame  all  women's  shall  outshine. 

"  '  For  when  in  fight  the  stoutest  hearts  despair, 
When  direful  ruin  threatens  France,  forlorn, 
Then  thou  aloft  my  oriflamme  shalt  bear, 
And  swiftly  as  the  reaper  mows  the  corn, 
Thou  shalt  lay  low  the  haughty  conqueror  ; 
His  fortune's  wheel  thou  rapidly  shalt  turn, 
To  Gaul's  heroic  sons  deliv' ranee  bring, 
Believe  beleaguer'd  Rheims,  and  crown  thy  king  !' 

"  The  heavenly  Spirit  promised  me  a  sign  ; 
He  sends  the  helmet,  it  hath  come  from  him. 
Its  iron  filleth  me  with  strength  divine, 
I  feel  the  courage  of  the  cherubim  ; 
As  with  the  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind 
It  drives  me  forth  to  join  the  battle's  din  ; 
The  clanging  trumpets  sound,  the  chargers  rear, 
And  the  loud  war-cry  thunders  in  mine  ear." 

This  first  scene  is  a  prologue,  but  it  is  inseparable  from  the 
piece ;  it  was  necessary  to  put  in  action  the  instant  at  which 
Joan  of  Arc  embraces  her  solemn  resolution :  had  the  poet 


312  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

contented  himself  with  the  bare  recital,  he  would  have  de- 
prived it  of  the  movement  and  impulse  which  transport  the 
spectator  into  that  frame  of  mind  which  is  demanded  by  the 
wonders  he  is  obliged  to  believe. 

The  play  of  Joan  of  Arc  proceeds  uniformly,  according  to 
the  history,  to  the  period  of  the  coronation  at  Rheims.  The 
character  of  Agnes  Sorel  is  painted  with  elevation  and  deli- 
cacy, and  adds  effect  to  the  purity  of  Joan  of  Arc ;  for  all  the 
endowments  of  this  world  vanish  by  the  side  of  virtues  truly 
religious.  There  is  a  third  female  character,  that  of  Isabel  of 
Bavaria,  which  it  might  be  well  to  suppress  altogether ;  it  is 
gross,  and  the  contrast  is  much  too  strong  to  produce  any 
effect.  Joan  of  Arc  is  rightly  opposed  to  Agnes  Sorel,  a  heav- 
enly love  to  that  which  is  earthly ;  but  hatred  and  perversity 
in  a  woman  are  beneath  the  dignity  of  art,  which  degrades 
itself  in  painting  them. 

Shakspeare  gave  the  idea  of  the  scene  in  which  Joan  of  Arc 
brings  back  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  to  the  fealty  he  owes  his 
king;  but  Schiller  has  executed  it  in  an  admirable  manner. 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  wishes  to  revive  in  the  duke's  soul  that 
attachment  to  France  which  was  then  so  powerful  in  the  minds 
of  all  the  generous  inhabitants  of  that  noble  country. 

"  What  wouldst  thou,  Burgundy  ?     Who  is  the  foe 
Whom  eagerly  thy  murderous  glances  seek  ? 
This  prince  is,  like  thyself,  a  son  of  France,— 
This  hero  is  thy  countryman,  thy  friend  ; 
I  am  a  daughter  of  thy  fatherland. 
We  all,  whom  thou  art  eager  to  destroy, 
Are  of  thy  friends  ;  our  longing  arms  prepare 
To  clasp,  our  bending  knees  to  honor  thee. 
Our  sword  'gainst  thee  is  pointless,  and  that  face 
E'en  in  a  hostile  helm  is  dear  to  us, 
For  there  we  trace  the  features  of  our  king." 

The  Duke  of  Burgundy  rejects  the  supplications  of  Joan  of 
Arc,  fearing  her  supernatural  seduction.  She  says  : 

"  'Tis  not  imperious  necessity 
Which  throws  us  at  thy  feet.    We  do  not  coma 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  3 IS 

As  suppliants  before  thee.     Look  around  ! 
The  English  tents  are  level  with  the  ground, 
And  all  the  field  is  cover' d  with  your  slain. 
Hark  !  the  war-trumpets  of  the  French  resound  : 
God  hath  decided — ours  the  victory  ! 
Our  new-cull'd  laurel  garland  with  our  friend 
We  fain  would  share.     Come,  noble  fugitive  ! 
Oh  come  where  justice  and  where  victory  dwell ! 
Even  I,  the  messenger  of  Heaven,  extend 
A  sister's  hand  to  thee.     I  fain  would  save 
And  draw  thee  over  to  our  righteous  cause  ! 
Heaven  hath  declared  for  France  !     Angelic  powers, 
Unseen  by  thee,  do  battle  for  our  king  ; 
With  lilies  are  the  holy  ones  adorn'd. 
Pure  as  this  radiant  banner  is  our  cause  ; 
Its  blessed  symbol  is  the  Queen  of  Heaven. 

BURGUNDY. 

"  Falsehood's  fallacious  words  are  full  of  guile, 
But  hers  are  pure  and  simple  as  a  child's. 
If  evil  spirits  borrow  this  disguise, 
They  copy  innocence  triumphantly. 
I'll  hear  no  more.    To  arms,  Dunois  !  to  arms  ! 
Mine  ear,  I  feel,  is  weaker  than  mine  arm. 

JOHANNA. 

"  You  call  me  an  enchantress,  and  accuse 
Of  hellish  arts.     Is  it  the  work  of  Hell 
To  heal  dissension,  and  to  foster  peace  ? 
Comes  holy  concord  from  the  depths  below  T 
Say,  what  is  holy,  innocent,  and  good, 
If  not  to  combat  for  our  fatherland  ? 
Since  when  hath  nature  been  so  self-opposed, 
That  Heaven  forsakes  the  just  and  righteous  cause, 
While  Hell  protects  it  ?    If  my  words  are  true, 
Whence  could  I  draw  them  but  from  Heaven  above? 
Who  ever  sought  me  in  my  shepherd-walks, 
To  teach  the  humble  maid  affairs  of  state  ? 
I  ne'er  have  stood  with  princes,  to  these  lips 
Unknown  the  arts  of  eloquence.    Yet  now, 
When  I  have  need  of  it  to  touch  thy  heart, 
Insight  and  varied  knowledge  I  possess ; 
The  fate  of  empires  and  the  doom  of  kings 
VOL.  I.— 14 


314  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

Lie  cleavh'  spread  before  my  childish  mind. 
And  words  of  thunder  issue  from,  my  mouth." 

At  these  words,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  is  moved,  is  troub- 
led. Joan  of  Arc  perceives  it,  and  exclaims  : 

"  He  weeps — he's  conquer'd,  he  is  ours  once  more !" 

The  French  bend  their  swords  and  colors  before  him.  Charles 
the  Seventh  appears,  and  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  throws  him- 
self at  his  feet. 

I  regret,  for  our  national  honor,  that  this  scene  was  not  con- 
ceived by  a  Frenchman ;  but  how  much  genius,  and,  above  all, 
how  much  nature  is  necessary  to  become  thus  identified  with 
all  that  is  great  and  true  in  all  countries  and  in  all  ages ! 

Talbot,  whom  Schiller  represents  as  an  atheist-warrior,  in- 
trepid against  heaven  itself,  despising  death,  even  though  he 
thinks  it  full  of  horror — Talbot,  wounded  by  Joan  of  Arc,  dies 
on  the  stage  blaspheming.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better 
to  follow  the  tradition,  which  says  that  Joan  of  Arc  never  shed 
human  blood,  and  triumphed  without  killing.  A  critic,  of  a 
refined  and  severe  judgment,  has  also  reproached  Schiller  with 
having  made  Joan  of  Arc  susceptible  of  love,  instead  of  making 
her  die  a  martyr,  without  having  ever  experienced  any  senti- 
ment foreign  to  the  object  of  her  divine  mission :  it  is  thus  that 
she  should  be  painted  in  a  poem  ;•  but  I  know  not  whether  a 
soul  of  such  unspotted  holiness  would  not  produce,  in  a  piece 
designed  for  the  stage,  the  same  effect  as  marvellous  or  alle- 
gorical beings,  whose  actions  are  all  foreseen,  and  who,  not 
being  agitated  by  human  passions,  present  to  us  no  dramatic 
conflict  or  interest. 

Among  the  noble  knights  of  the  court  of  France,  the  brave 
Dunois  presses  forward  the  first  to  ask  Joan  of  Arc  to  become 
his  wife  ;  and,  constant  to  her  vows,  she  refuses  him.  A  young 
Montgomery,  in  the  midst  of  a  battle,  implores  her  to  spare 
him,  and  represents  to  her  the  grief  which  his  death  will  occa- 
sion to  his  aged  father;  Joan  of  Arc  rejects  his  prayer,  and 
displays,  upon  this  occasion,  more  inflexibility  than  her  duty 
demands ;  but  at  the  instant  when  she  is  about  to  strike  a 


THE   DTCAMAS    OF    SCHILLKK.  olO 

young  Englishman,  Lionel,  she  feels  herself  at  once  softened 
by  his  beauty,  and  love  finds  entrance  into  her  heart.  Then 
all  her  power  is  destroyed.  A  knight,  black  as  fate,  appears 
to  her  in  the  battle,  and  counsels  her  not  to  go  to  Rheims. 
She  goes  there,  notwithstanding ;  the  solemn  pomp  of  the 
coronation  passes  on  the  stage ;  Joan  of  Arc  walks  in  the  first 
rank,  but  her  steps  are  unsteady ;  she  bears  in  a  trembling 
hand  the  consecrated  standard,  and  the  holy  spirit  is  perceived 
to  protect  her  no  longer. 

Before  she  enters  the  church,  she  stops  short,  and  remains 
alone  on  the  stage.  From  afar  are  heard  the  festive  instru- 
ments that  accompany  the  ceremony  of  the  consecration  ;  and 
Joan  of  Arc  utters  harmonious  complaints,  while  the  sound  of 
flutes  and  hautboys  floats  gently  in  the  air. 

"  Hush'd  in  the  din  of  arms,  war's  storms  subside, 
Glad  song  and  dance  succeed  the  bloody  fray, 
Through  all  the  streets  joy  echoes  far  and  wide, 
Altar  and  church  are  deck'd  in  rich  array, 
Triumphal  arches  rise  in  vernal  pride, 
Wreathes  round  the  columns  wind  their  flowery  way, 
Wide  Rheims  cannot  contain  the  mighty  throng, 
Which  to  the  joyous  pageant  rolls  along. 

"  One  thought  alone  doth  every  heart  possess, 
One  rapt'rous  feeling  o'er  each  breast  preside, 
And  those  to-day  are  link'd  in  happiness 
Whom  bloody  hatred  did  erewhile  divide. 
All  who  themselves  of  Gallic  race  confess 
The  name  of  Frenchman  own  with  conscious  pride, 
France  sees  the  splendor  of  her  ancient  crown, 
And  to  her  monarch's  son  bows  humbly  down. 

"  Yet  I,  the  author  of  this  wide  delight, 
The  joy,  myself  created,  cannot  share  ; 
My  heart  is  changed,  in  sad  and  dreary  plight 
It  flies  the  festive  pageant  in  despair  ; 
Still  to  the  British  camp  it  taketh  flight, 
Against  my  will  my  gaze  still  wanders  there, 
And  from  the  throng  I  steal,  with  grief  oppress'd, 
To  hide  the  guilt  which  weighs  upon  my  breast. 


316  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

"  What  ?  I  permit  a  human  form 
To  haunt  my  bosom's  sacred  cell  ? 
And  there,  where  heavenly  radiance  shone 
Doth  earthly  love  presume  to  dwell? 
The  saviour  of  my  country,  I, 
The  warrior  of  God  most  high, 
Burn  for  my  country's  foeman  ?     Dare  I  name 
Heaven's  holy  light,  nor  feel  o'erwhelm'd  with  shame? 
[The  music  behind  the  scene  passes  into  a  soft  and  moving  melody. 

"  Woe  is  me !  those  melting  tones ! 
They  distract  my  'wilder'd  brain  ! 
Every  note  his  voice  recalling, 
Conjures  up  his  form  again  ! 

"  Would  that  spears  were  whizzing  round  ! 
Would  that  battle's  thunder  roar'd  ! 
'Midst  the  wild  tumultuous  sound 
My  former  strength  were  then  restored. 

"  These  sweet  tones,  these  melting  voices, 
With  seductive  power  are  fraught ! 
They  dissolve,  in  gentle  longing, 
Every  feeling,  every  thought, 
Waking  tears  of  plaintive  sadness  ! 

[After  a  pause,  with  more  energy . 

,  "  Should  I  have  kill'd  him  ?    Could  I,  when  I  gazed 

Upon  his  face?     Kill'd  him  !     Oh,  rather  far 
Would  I  have  turn'd  my  weapon  'gainst  myself! 
And  am  I  culpable  because  humane  ? 
Is  pity  sinful  1 — Pity  !     Didst  thou  hear 
The  voice  of  pity  and  humanity, 
When  others  fell  the  victims  of  thy  sword  ? 
Why  was  she  silent  when  the  gentle  youth 
From  Wales  entreated  thee  to  spare  his  life  ? 
O  cunning  heart !     Thou  liest  before  high  Heaven  ; 
It  is  not  pity's  voice  impels  thee  now  ! 
— Why  was  I  doom'd  to  look  into  his  eyes  ! 
To  mark  his  noble  features !     With  that  glance, 
Thy  crime,  thy  woe  commenced.     Unhappy  one ! 
A  sightless  instrument  thy  God  demands. 
Blindly  thou  must  accomplish  his  behest ! 
When  thou  didst  see,  God's  shield  abandon'd  thee, 
And  the  dire  snares  of  Hell  around  thee  press' d ! 
[Flutes  are  again  heard,  and  she  subsides  into  a  quiet  melancholy. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  317 

"  Harmless  staff !     Oh ,  that  I  ne '  er 
Had  for  the  sword  abandon' d  thee  ! 
Had  voices  never  reach' d  mine  ear, 
From  thy  branches'  sacred  tree  ! 
High  Queen  of  Heaven  !  Oh  would  that  thou 
Hadst  ne'er  re  veal 'd  thyself  to  me  ! 
Take  back — I  dare  not  claim  it  now — 
Take  back  thy  crown,  'tis  not  for  me  ! 

"  I  saw  the  heavens  open  wide, 
I  gazed  upon  that  face  of  love  ! 
Yet  here  on  earth  my  hopes  abide, 
They  do  not  dwell  in  heaven  above  ! 
Why,  Holy  One,  on  me  impose 
This  dread  vocation  ?    Could  I  steel, 
And  to  each  soft  emotion  close 
This  heart,  by  nature  form'd  to  feel? 

"  Wouldst  thou  proclaim  thy  high  command, 
Make  choice  of  those  who,  free  from  sin, 
In  thy  eternal  mansions  stand ; 
Send  forth  thy  flaming  cherubim ! 
Immortal  ones,  thy  law  they  keep, 
They  do  not  feel,  they  do  not  weep  ! 
Choose  not  a  tender  woman's  aid, 
Not  the  frail  soul  of  shepherd  maid  ! 

"Was  I  concern'd  with  warlike  things, 
With  battles  or  the  strife  of  kings  ? 
In  innocence  I  led  my  sheep 
Adown  the  mountain's  silent  steep. 
But  thou  didst  send  me  into  life, 
'Midst  princely  halls  and  scenes  of  strife, 
To  lose  my  spirit's  tender  bloom : 
Alas,  I  did  not  seek  my  doom  !" 

This  soliloquy  is  a  grand  achievement  of  poetry ;  one  per- 
vading sentiment  naturally  brings  us  back  to  the  same  expres- 
sions ;  and  it  is  in  this  very  respect  that  the  verse  agrees  so 
well  with  the  affections  of  the  soul ;  for  it  transforms  into  de- 
iicious  harmony  what  might  appear  monotonous  in  the  simple 
language  of  prose.  The  distraction  of  Joan  of  Arc  goes  on  al- 
ways increasing.  The  honors  they  render  her,  the  gratitude 
they  testify  for  her,  nothing  is  capable  of  reassuring  her,  now 


3.1S  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

that  she  feels  herself  abandoned  by  the  all-powerful  hand  which 
had  raised  her  up.  At  last  her  fatal  presentiments  are  accom- 
plished, and  in  what  manner  ! 

In  order  to  conceive  the  terrible  effect  of  an  accusation  of 
witchcraft,  we  must  transport  ourselves  to  those  ages  in  which 
the  suspicion  of  this  mysterious  crime  was  ever  ready  to  fix 
upon  all  extraordinary  events.  The  belief  of  a  principle  of  evil, 
such  as  it  then  existed,  supposed  the  possibility  of  a  frightful 
worship  paid  to  the  powers  of  hell ;  the  terrifying  objects  of 
nature  were  the  symbol,  and  grotesque  signs  and  characters 
the  language  of  this  worship.  All  worldly  prosperity,  of  which 
the  cause  was  unknown,  was  attributed  to  this  demoniacal  con- 
tract. The  word  magic  designated  the  unbounded  empire  of 
evil,  as  providence  was  applied  to  the  dominion  of  infinite  hap- 
piness. This  imprecation,  she  is  a  witch,  he  is  a  sorcerer,  be- 
come ridiculous  in  our  days,  made  men  shudder  with  horror  a 
few  centuries  ago ;  all  the  most  sacred  ties  were  broken  when 
these  words  were  uttered ;  no  courage  could  brave  them,  and 
the  disorder  with  which  they  affected  all  spirits  was  such,  that 
it  might  have  been  said,  the  demons  of  hell  appeared  in  reality, 
when  they  fancied  they  saw  them  appear. 

The  unhappy  fanatic,  Joan  of  Arc's  father,  is  seized  by  this 
prevailing  superstition  ;  and  far  from  being  proud  of  his  daugh- 
ter's glory,  he  presents  himself  voluntarily  amid  the  knights 
and  lords  of  the  court,  to  accuse  her  of  witchcraft.  Imme- 
diately every  heart  is  frozen  with  fear ;  the  knights,  compan- 
ions in  arms  of  the  heroine,  press  her  to  justify  herself,  and  she 
remains  silent.  The  king  questions  her,  and  still  she  remains 
silent.  The  archbishop  conjures  her  to  swear  her  innocence 
on  the  crucifix,  and  she  remains  silent.  She  will  not  defend 
herself  against  the  crime  of  which  she  is  falsely  accused,  while 
she  feels  herself  guilty  of  another  crime,  which  her  heart  can- 
not forgive  itself.  Thunder  is  heard,  the  people  are  over- 
whelmed with  terror,  and  Joan  of  Arc  is  banished  from  the 
empire  she  has  just  preserved.  No  man  dares  come  near  her. 
The  crowd  disperses ;  the  unhappy  victim  quits  the  town,  and 
wanders  about  in  the  fields ;  overcome  by  fatigue,  she  accepts 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  319 

a  refreshing  beverage :  the  child  who  presents  it,  recollects 
her,  and  snatches  from  her  hands  this  feeble  consolation.  It 
is  as  if  the  blasts  of  hell,  with  which  she  is  thought  to  be  sur- 
rounded, had  been  capable  of  defiling  whatever  she  touched, 
and  of  plunging  headlong  into  the  eternal  gulf  whatever  per- 
son dared  to  assist  her.  At  last,  pursued  from  one  place  of 
refuge  to  another,  she  who  delivered  France  falls  into  the 
power  of  its  enemies. 

Up  to  this  point,  this  romantic  tragedy — it  is  so  that  Schiller 
has  styled  it — is  filled  with  beauties  of  the  highest  order  :  some 
tedious  details  may  be  found  in  it  (this  is  a  fault  from  which 
the  German  writers  are  never  exempt)  ;  but  events  of  such  re- 
markable importance  are  made  to  pass  before  our  eyes,  that 
the  imagination  exalts  itself  to  their  elevation,  and,  judging  of 
this  piece  no  longer  as  a  work  of  art,  we  are  brought  to  con- 
sider the  marvellous  picture  which  it  presents  to  us  as  a  new 
reflection  of  the  holy  inspiration  of  the  heroine.  The  only 
serious  defect  with  which  this  lyrical  drama  is  to  be  reproached, 
is  the  denoilmcnt :  instead  of  adopting  that  with  which  history 
furnished  him,  Schiller  supposes  that  Joan  of  Arc,  put  in  chains 
by  the  English,  miraculously  bursts  her  fetters,  rejoins  the 
French  camp,  decides  the  victory  in  their  favor,  and  receives  a 
mortal  wound.  The  marvellous  in  invention,  placed  by  the 
side  of  the  marvellous  transmitted  to  us  by  history,  robs  the 
subject  of  a  great  part  of  its  seriousness.  Besides,  what  could 
be  more  noble  than  the  conduct  and  the  very  answers  of  Joan 
of  Arc,  when  condemned  at  Rouen  by  the  great  English  barons, 
and  the  Norman  bishops  ? 

History  records  that  this  young  girl  united  the  most  immova- 
ble courage  to  the  most  touching  sorrow ;  she  wept  like  a 
woman,  but  conducted  herself  like  a  hero.  She  was  accused 
of  having  abandoned  herself  to  superstitious  practices,  and  she 
repelled  this  charge  with  arguments  such  as  an  enlightened 
person  of  our  days  might  make  use  of ;  but  she  constantly  per- 
sisted in  declaring  that  she  had  had  secret  revelations,  which 
decided  her  in  the  choice  of  her  career.  Overcome  by  horror 
of  the  punishment  which  threatened  her,  she  gave  constant 


320  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

testimony,  before  the  English,  to  the  energy  of  the  French,  to 
the  virtues  of  the  King  of  France,  even  though  he  had  aban- 
doned her.  Her  death  was  neither  that  of  a  warrior,  nor  that 
of  a  martyr ;  but,  through  the  softness  and  timidity  of  her  sex, 
she  displayed  in  her  last  moments  a  force  of  inspiration  almost 
equally  astonishing  with  that,  the  supposition  of  which  had 
brought  down  upon  her  the  charge  of  witchcraft.  However 
this  might  be,  the  simple  recital  of  her  end  causes  a  much 
stronger  emotion  than  the  catastrophe  imagined  by  Schiller. 
When  poetry  takes  upon  herself  to  add  to  the  lustre  of  an 
historical  personage,  she  is  bound  at  least  carefully  to  preserve 
the  physiognomy  which  characterizes  it ;  for  greatness  is  really 
striking  only  when  it  is  known  how  to  give  it  a  natural  air. 
Now,  in  the  subject  of  Joan  of  Arc,  the  real  history  not  only 
has  more  of  nature,  but  more  of  grandeur  in  it  than  the  fictitious. 
The  Bride  of  Messina  was  composed  according  to  a  dramatic 
system  altogether  different  from  that  which  Schiller  had  till 
then  followed,  and  to  which  he  happily  returned.  It  was  in 
order  to  admit  choruses  on  the  stage,  that  he  chose  a  subject 
in  which  there  is  nothing  of  novelty  but  the  names ;  for  it  is, 
fundamentally,  the  same  thing  as  the  Freres  Ennemis.  Schiller 
has  merely  added  to  it  a  sister,  whom  her  two  brothers  fall  in 
love  with,  ignorant  that  she  is  their  sister,  and  one  kills  the 
other  from  jealousy.  This  situation,  terrible  in  itself,  is  in- 
termingled with  choruses,  which  make  a  part  of  the  piece. 
These  are  the  the  servants  of  the  two  brothers,  who  interrupt 
and  congeal  the  interest  by  their  mutual  discussions.  The 
lyric  poetry,  which  they  recite,  all  at  the  same  time,  is  superb ; 
yet  are  they  not  the  less,  whatever  may  be  said  of  it,  cho- 
ruses of  chamberlains.  The  assembled  people  alone  possesses 
that  independent  dignity  which  constitutes  it  an  impartial 
spectator.  The  chorus  ought  to  represent  posterity.  If  it 
were  animated  by  personal  affections,  it  would  necessarily 
become  ridiculous ;  for  it  would  be  inconceivable  how  several 
different  persons  should  say  the  same  thing,  at  the  same  time, 
if  their  voices  were  not  supposed  to  be  the  unerring  interpret- 
ers of  eternal  truths. 


THE   DEAMA8   OF    SCHILLEE.  321 

Schiller,  in  the  preface  to  his  Bride  of  Messina,  complains, 
with  reason,  that  our  modern  usages  no  longer  possess  those 
popular  forms  which  rendered  them  so  poetical  among  the 
ancients : 

"  The  palaces  of  kings  are  in  these  days  closed ;  courts  of 
justice  have  been  transferred  from  the  gates  of  cities  to  the 
interior  of  buildings;  writing  has  narrowed  the  province  of 
speech ;  the  people  itself — the  sensibly  living  mass — when  it 
does  not  operate  as  brute  force,  has  become  a  part  of  the  civil 
polity,  and  thereby  an  abstract  idea  in  our  minds  ;  the  deities 
have  returned  within  the  bosoms  of  mankind.  The  poet  must 
reopen  the  palaces — he  must  place  courts  of  justice  beneath 
the  canopy  of  heaven — restore  the  gods,  reproduce  every  ex- 
treme which  the  artificial  frame  of  actual  life  has  abolished — 
throw  aside  every  factitious  influence  on  the  mind  or  condition 
of  man  which  impedes  the  manifestation  of  his  inward  nature 
and  primitive  character,  as  the  statuary  rejects  modern  cos- 
tume : — and  of  all  external  circumstances  adopts  nothing  but 
what  is  palpable  in  the  highest  of  forms — that  of  humanity." ' 

This  desire  of  another  time,  another  country,  is  a  poetical 
sentiment.  The  religious  man  has  need  of  heaven,  and  the 
poet  of  another  earth ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  religion, 
or  what  epoch,  is  represented  to  us  by  the  Bride  of  Messina  : 
it  departs  from  modern  manners,  without  placing  us  in  the 
times  of  antiquity.  The  poet  has  confounded  all  religions 
together,  and  this  confusion  destroys  the  high  unity  of  tragedy 
— that  of  an  all-directing  destiny.  The  events  are  atrocious, 
and  yet  the  horror  they  inspire  is  of  a  tranquil  cast.  The 
dialogue  is  as  long,  as  diffuse,  as  if  it  were  the  business  of  all 
to  speak  fine  verses,  and  as  if  one  loved,  and  were  jealous,  and 
hated  one's  brother,  and  killed  him,  without  ever  departing  from 
the  sphere  of  general  reflections  and  philosophical  sentiments. 

The  Bride  of  Messina  displays,  nevertheless,  some  admirable 
traces  of  the  fine  genius  of  Schiller.  When  one  of  the  brothers 
has  been  killed  by  the  other,  who  is  jealous  of  him,  the  dead 

1  We  use  the  version  macb  for  Mr.  Bonn.— Ed. 
140 


322  MADAME   DE    STAEL'S    GERMANY. 

body  is  brought  into  the  mother's  palace  ;  she  is  yet  ignorant 
that  she  has  lost  a  son,  and  it  is  announced  to  her  by  the  chorus 
which  walks  before  the  bier,  in  the  following  words : 

"With  Sorrow  in  his  train, 
From  street  to  street  the  King  of  Terror  glides  ; 

With  stealthy  foot  and  slow, 
He  creeps  where'er  the  fleeting  race 

Of  man  abides  ! 
In  turn,  at  every  gate 
Is  heard  the  dreaded  knock  of  Fate, 

The  message  of  unutterable  woe  ! 

"  When  in  the  sere 
And  Autumn  leaves  decay'd, 
The  mournful  forest  tells  how  quickly  fade 

The  glories  of  the  year ! 
When  in  the  silent  tomb  opprest, 

Frail  man,  with  weight  of  days, 
Sinks  to  his  tranquil  rest, 

Contented  nature  but  obeys 
Her  everlasting  law — 
The  general  doom  awakes  no  shuddering  awe  ! 

But,  mortals,  oh  !  prepare 
For  mightier  ills  :  with  ruthless  hand, 
Fell  murder  cuts  the  holy  band — 

The  kindred  tie :  insatiate  Death, 
With  unrelenting  rage, 
Bears  to  his  bark  the  flower  of  blooming  age  ! 

"  When  clouds  athwart  the  lowering  sky 
Are  driven — when  bursts  with  hollow  moan 
The  thunder's  peal — our  trembling  bosoms  own 

The  might  of  awful  destiny  ! 
Yet  oft  the  lightning's  glare 
Darts  sudden  through  the  cloudless  air  : — 

Then  in  thy  short  delusive  day 
Of  bliss,  oh  !  dread  the  treacherous  snare  ; 
Nor  prize  the  fleeting  goods  and  vain, 

The  flowers  that  bloom  but  to  decay  ! 
Nor  wealth,  nor  joy,  nor  aught  but  pain, 

Was  e'er  to  mortal's  lot  secure : — 

Our  first  best  lesson — to  endure !"» 

»  We  uso  the  fine  version  of  A.  Lodge,  Esq.,  A.  M.,  which  has  been 
much  praised  by  English  critics  —  Ed. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  323 

When  the  brother  learns  that  the  object  of  his  love,  for 
which  he  had  slain  his  brother,  is  his  sister,  his  despair  knows 
no  bounds,  and  he  resolves  to  die.  His  mother  offers  to  par- 
don him,  his  sister  entreats  him  to  live ;  but  a  sentiment  of 
envy  mixes  with  his  remorse,  and  renders  him  still  jealous  of 
him  that  is  no  more.  He  says  : 

"  When  one  common  tomb 
The  murderer  and  his  victim  closes  round — 
When  o'er  our  dust  one  monumental  stone 
Is  roll'd — the  curse  shall  cease — thy  love  no  more 
Unequal  bless  thy  sons  ;  the  precious  tears 
Thine  eyes  of  beauty  weep,  shall  sanctify 
Alike  our  memories.     Yes  !  In  death  are  quench' d 
fhe  fires  of  rage  ;  and  Hatred  owns  subdued, 
The  mighty  reconciler.     Pity  bends 
An  angel  form  above  the  funeral  urn, 
With  weeping,  dear  embrace." 

His  mother  again  conjures  him  not  to  abandon  her.  "  No," 
he  says — 

"  I  would  not  live  the  victim  of  despair  ; 
No !  I  must  meet  with  beaming  eye  the  smile 
Of  happy  ones,  and  breathe  erect  the  air 
Of  liberty  and  joy.    While  yet  alike 
We  shared  thy  love,  then  o'er  my  days  of  youth 
Pale  Envy  cast  his  withering  shade ;  and  now, 
Think' st  thou  my  heart  could  brook  the  dearer  ties 
That  bind  thee  in  thy  sorrow  to  the  dead  ? 
Death,  in  his  undecaying  palace  throned, 
To  the  pure  diamond  of  perfect  virtue 
Sublimes  the  mortal,  and  with  chastening  fire 
Each  gather'd  stain  of  frail  humanity 
Purges  and  burns  away  :  high  as  the  stars 
Tower  o'er  this  earthly  sphere,  he  soars  above  me  ; 
And  as  by  ancient  hate  dissever'd  long, 
Brethren  and  equal  denisens  we  lived, 
So  now  my  restless  soul  with  envy  pines, 
That  he  has  won  from  me  the  glorious  prize 
Of  Immortality,  and  like  a  god 
In  memory  marches  on  to  times  unborn  !" 

The  jealousy  inspired  by  the  dead  is  a  sentiment  full  of 


324  MADAME   DE    STAEL9S    GERMANY. 

refinement  and  truth.  Who,  in  short,  can  triumph  over 
regret  ?  Will  the  living  ever  equal  the  beaut}7  of  that  celestial 
image,  which  the  friend  who  is  no  more  has  left  engraven  on 
our  heart  ?  Has  he  not  said  to  us  :  "  Forget  me  not  ?"  Is  he 
not  defenceless  ?  Where  does  he  exist  upon  this  earth,  if  not 
in  the  sanctuary  of  our  soul  ?  And  who,  among  the  happy  of 
this  world,  can  ever  unite  himself  to  us  so  intimately  as  his 
memory  ? 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WILHELM    TELL. 

SCHILLER'S  Wilhelm  Tell  is  clothed  with  those  lively  and 
brilliant  colors  which  transport  the  imagination  into  the  pic- 
turesque regions  that  gave  birth  to  the  venerable  confederacy 
of  the  Rutli.  In  the  very  first  verses  we  fancy  ourselves  to 
hear  the  horns  of  the  Alps  resound.  The  clouds  which  inter- 
sect the  mountains  and  hide  the  lower  earth  from  that  which 
is  nearer  heaven ;  the  chamois  hunters  pursuing  their  active 
prey  from  precipice  to  precipice ;  the  life,  at  once  pastoral  and 
military,  which  contends  with  nature  and  remains  at  peace 
with  men — every  thing  inspires  an  animated  interest  for  Swit- 
zerland ;  and  the  unity  of  action,  in  this  tragedy,  consists  in 
the  art  of  making  of  the  nation  itself  a  dramatic  character. 

The  boldness  of  Tell  is  brilliantly  displayed  in  the  first  act 
of  the  piece.  An  unhappy  outlaw,  devoted  to  death  by  one 
of  the  subaltern  tyrants  of  Switzerland,  endeavors  to  save  him- 
self on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  where  he  thinks  he  may 
find  an  asylum.  The  storm  is  so  violent  that  no  boatman 
dares  risk  the  passage  to  conduct  him  to  it.  Tell  sees  his  dis- 
tress, exposes  himself  with  him  to  the  danger  of  the  waves, 
and  succeeds  in  landing  him  safely  on  the  shore.  Tell  is  a 
stranger  to  the  conspiracy  which  the  insolence  of  Gessler  has 
excited.  Stauffacher,  Walter  Furst,  and  Arnold  of  Melchthal 
lay  the  foundation  of  the  revolt.  Tell  is  its  hero,  but  not  its 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLEK.  325 

author ;  he  does  not  think  about  politics,  and  dreams  of  tyran- 
ny only  when  it  disturbs  his  tranquil  existence ;  he  repels  it 
with  the  force  of  his  arm  when  he  feels  its  aggression ;  he 
judges,  he  condemns  it  before  his  own  tribunal ;  but  he  does 
not  conspire. 

Arnold  of  Melchthal,  one  of  the  conspirators,  has  retreated 
to  Walter's  house,  having  been  obliged  to  quit  his  father  that  he 
might  escape  the  satellites  of  Gessler ;  he  is  troubled  at  the  reflec- 
tion that  he  has  left  him  alone ;  he  asks  anxiously  for  news  of 
him,  when,  on  a  sudden,  he  learns  that,  to  punish  the  old  man 
for  his  son's  having  withdrawn  himself  from  the  judgment  pro- 
nounced against  him,  the  barbarians  have  deprived  him  of 
sight  with  a  red-hot  iron.  What  despair,  what  rage  can  equal 
that  which  he  feels !  It  becomes  necessary  that  he  should  re- 
venge himself.  If  he  delivers  his  country,  it  is  to  put  to  death 
the  tyrants  who  have  blinded  his  father  ;  and  when  'the  three 
conspirators  bind  themselves  by  a  solemn  oath  to  die  or  to  set 
free  their  fellow-citizens  from  the  frightful  yoke  of  Gessler, 
Arnold  exclaims : 

' '  Alas,  my  old  blind  father  ! 
Thou  canst  no  more  behold  the  day  of  freedom  ; 
But  thou  shalt  hear  it.     When  from  Alp  to  Alp 
The  beacon  fires  throw  up  their  flaming  signs, 
And  the  proud  castles  of  the  tyrants  fall, 
Into  thy  cottage  shall  the  Switzer  burst, 
Bear  the  glad  tidings  to  thine  ear,  and  o'er 
Thy  darken'd  way  shall  Freedom's  radiance  pour."1 

The  third  act  is  filled  by  the  principal  action,  both  of  the 
real  history,  and  of  the  drama.  Gessler  has  had  a  hat  raised 
on  a  spear's  head  in  the  middle  of  the  public  square,  with  an 
order  that  all  the  country  people  shall  pay  it  salutation.  Tell 
passes  before  this  hat  without  conforming  to  the  will  of  the 
Austrian  governor ;  but  it  is  only  from  inadvertence  that  he 
has  not  submitted  to  it,  for  it  was  not  in  the  character  of  Tell, 


1  For  this  and  other  quotations  from  Wilhdm  Tell,  we  are  indebted  to  the 
fine  version  of  Mr.  Theodore  Martin.    (Bonn's  Standard  Library).— Ed. 


326  MADAME   DE    STAEL7S    GERMANY. 

at  least  in  that  which  Schiller  has  assigned  him,  to  manifest 
any  political  opinion  :  wild  and  independent  as  the  deer  of  the 
mountains,  he  lived  free,  but  did  not  inquire  into  the  right  by 
which  he  did  so.  At  the  moment  of  Tell's  being  charged  with 
his  neglect  of  the  salutation,  Gessler  arrives,  bearing  a  hawk 
on  his  wrist :  this  single  circumstance  stamps  the  picture,  and 
transports  us  into  the  middle  ages.  The  terrible  power  of 
Gessler  forms  a  striking  contrast  to  the  simple  manners  of  the 
Swiss,  and  one  is  astonished  at  this  tyranny  exercised  in  the 
open  air,  with  the  hills  and  valleys  for  its  solitary  witnesses. 

Tell's  disobedience  is  related  to  Gessler,  and  Tell  excuses 
himself  by  affirming  that  it  was  unintentionally  and  through 
ignorance  that  he  did  not  perform  the  enjoined  act  of  saluta- 
tion. Gessler,  still  irritated,  says  to  him,  after  some  moments 
of  silence : 

"  I  hear,  Tell,  you're  a  master  with  the  bow, — 
And  bear  the  palm  away  from  every  rival." 

The  son  of  Tell,  twelve  years  of  age,  proud  of  his  father's 
skill,  exclaims : 

"  That  must  be  true,  sir  !    At  a  hundred  yards 
He'll  shoot  an  apple  for  you  off  the  tree. 

GESSLER. 
"  Is  that  boy  thine,  Tell  ? 

TELL. 

"  Yes,  my  gracious  lord. 
GESSLER. 

'•  Hast  any  more  of  them  ? 
TELL. 

' '  Two  boys,  iny  lord. 
GESSLER. 
"And,  of  the  two,  which  dost  thou  love  the  most? 

TELL. 
"  Sir,  both  the  boys  are  dear  to  me  alike. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   SCHILLER.  327 

GESSLKR. 

Then,  Tell,  since  at  a  hundred  yards  thou  canst 
Bring  down  the  apple  from  the  tree,  thou  shalt 
Approve  thy  skill  before  me.     Take  thy  bow — 
Thou  hast  it  there  at  hand — and  make  thee  ready 
To  shoot  an  apple  from  the  stripling's  head  ! 
But  take  this  counsel, — look  well  to  thine  aim, 
See,  that  thou  hitt'st  the  apple  at  the  first, 
For,  shouldst  thou  miss,  thy  head  shall  pay  the  forfeit. 

[All  give  signs  of  horror. 

TELL. 

"  What  monstrous  thing,  my  lord,  is  this  you  ask  ? 
That  I,  from  the  head  of  mine  own  child  ! — No,  no ! 
It  cannot  be,  kind  sir,  you  meant  not  that — 
God,  in  his  grace,  forbid  !     You  could  not  ask 
A  father  seriously  to  do  that  thing ! 

GESSLEB. 

"  Thou  art  to  shoot  an  apple  from  his  head ! 
I  do  desire — command  it  so. 

.    TBLL. 

"What  I! 

Level  my  crossbow  at  the  darling  head 
Of  mine  own  child  ?    No — rather  let  me  die ! 

GESSLEB. 
"  Or  thou  must  shoot,  or  with  thee  dies  the  boy. 

TELL. 

"  Shall  I  become  the  murd'rer  of  my  child ! 
You  have  no  children,  sir — you  do  not  know 
The  tender  throbbings  of  a  father's  heart. 

GESSLER. 

"  How  now,  Tell,  so  discreet  upon  a  sudden  ? 
I  had  been  told  thou  wert  a  visionary, — 
A  wanderer  from  the  paths  of  common  men. 
Thou  lov'st  the  marvellous.     So  have  I  now 
Cull'd  out  for  thee  a  task  of  special  daring. 
Another  man  might  pause  and  hesitate  ;— 
Thou  dashest  at  it,  heart  and  soul,  at  once." 


328  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

All  who  surround  Gessler  have  compassion  on  Tell,  and  en- 
deavor to  soften  the  barbarian  who  has  thus  condemned  him 
to  the  most  frightful  of  punishments ;  the  old  man,  the  child's 
grandfather,  throws  himself  at  Gessler's  feet ;  the  child  who  is 
to  have  the  apple  placed  on  his  head,  raises  him  and  says : 

"  Grandfather,  do  not  kneel  to  that  bad  man ! 
Say,  where  am  I  to  stand  ?     I  do  not  fear  ; 
My  father  strikes  the  bird  upon  the  wing, 
And  will  not  miss  now  when  'twould  harm  his  boy ! 

STAUFFACHER. 
"  Does  the  child's  innocence  not  touch  your  heart  ? 

RoSSELMANN. 

"  Bethink  you,  sir,  there  is  a  God  in  heaven, 
To  whom  you  must  account  for  all  your  deeds. 

GESSLER  (pointing  to  the  boy). 
"  Bind  him  to  yonder  lime-tree  straight ! 

WALTER. 

"  Bind  me  ? 

No,  I  will  not  be  bound  !     I  will  be  still, 
Still  as  a  lamb — nor  even  draw  my  breath  ! 
But  if  you  bind  me,  I  cannot  be  still. 
Then  I  shall  writhe  and  struggle  with  my  bonds. 

HARRAS. 

"  But  let  your  eyes  at  least  be  bandaged,  boy ! 
WALTER. 

"  And  why  my  eyes  ?    No !     Do  you  think  I  fear 
An  arrow  from  my  father's  hand?     Not  I ! 
I'll  wait  it  firmly,  nor  so  much  as  wink  ! 
Quick,  father,  show  them  that  thou  art  an  archer ! 
He  doubts  thy  skill — he  thinks  to  ruin  us. 
Shoot  then,  and  hit,  though  but  to  spite  the  tyrant ! 

The  child  places  himself  beneath  the  lime-tree,  and  the 
apple  is  put  upon  his  head ;  then  the  Swiss  again  press  around 
Gessler,  to  obtain  the  pardon  of  Tell.  Gessler,  addressing  him- 
self to  Tell,  says : 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  329 

'•'  Now,  to  thy  task  !     Men  bear  not  arms  for  naught. 
'Tis  dangerous  to  carry  deadly  weapons, 
And  on  the  archer  oft  his  shaft  recoils. 
This  right,  these  haughty  peasant  churls  assume, 
Trenches  upon  their  master's  privilege. 
None  should  he  armed,  but  those  who  bear  command. 
It  pleases  you  to  wear  the  bow  and  bolt ; — 
Well, — be  it  so.     I  will  provide  the  mark. 

TELL  (bends  the  bow,  and  fixes  the  arrow). 
"  A  lane  there !    Room  !" 

All  the  spectators  shudder.  He  tries  to  bend  his  bow,  his 
strength  fails  him  ;  a  mist  overshadows  his  eyes ;  he  entreats 
Gessler  to  grant  him  death.  Gessler  is  inflexible.  Tell  hesi- 
tates yet  for  a  considerable  time  in  a  state  of  frightful  anxiety, 
sometimes  looking  at  Gessler,  sometimes  towards  Heaven ;  then, 
on  a  sudden,  he  draws  a  second  arrow  out  of  his  quiver,  and 
places  it  in  his  girdle.  He  bends  forward,  as  if  to  follow  the 
arrow  which  he  sends  forth ;  it  flies — the  people  cry,  "  May 
the  child  live !"  The  child  darts  into  his  father's  arms,  and 
says :  "  My  father,  here  is  the  apple  which  thine  arrow  hath 
cleft ;  I  well  knew  that  it  would  not  hurt  me." '  The  father 
falls  senseless  to  the  earth  with  the  child  in  his  arms.  His 

1  The  whole  scene  is  as  follows : 

STATJFFAOHEB. 

"  What,  Tell  ?    You  would— no,  no  I 
You  shake — your  hand's  unsteady — your  knees  tremble. 

TELL  (letting  the  bow  sink  down). 
"  There's  something  swims  before  mine  eyes ! 

WOMEN. 

"  Great  Heaven ! 

TELL. 

"  Release  me  from  this  shot  1    Here  is  my  heart ! 

[Tears  open  his  breast. 
Summon  your'troopers — let  them  strike  me  down ! 


330  MADAME   DE   STAEL's    GERMANY. 

companions  raise  and  congratulate  him.  Gessler  draws  near, 
and  asks  him  with  what  design  he  had  prepared  a  second  shaft. 
Tell  refuses  to  inform  him.  Gessler  insists.  Tell  asks  a  pro- 
tection for  his  life  if  he  shall  answer  truly ;  Gessler  grants 

GESSLER. 

"  I  do  not  want  thy  life,  Tell,  but  the  shot. 

Thy  talent's  universal !     Nothing  daunts  thee  ! 

Thou  canst  direct  the  rudder  like  the  bow  ! 

Storms  fright  not  thee,  when  there's  a  life  at  stake: 

Now,  saviour,  help  thyself, — thou  savest  all ! 

[TELL  stands  fearfully  agitated  by  contending  emotions,  his 
hands  moving  convulsively,  and  his  eyes  turning  alternately 
to  the  governor  and  Heaven.  Suddenly  he  takes  a  second 
arrow  from  his  quiver,  and  sticks  it  in  his  belt.  The  gov- 
ernor watches  all  these  motions. 

WALTER  (beneath  the  lime-tree). 
"  Come,  father,  shoot !   I'm  not  afraid  I 

TELL. 

"  It  must  be ! 
[Collects  himself  and  levels  the  bow. 

RUDENZ  (who  att  the  while  has  been  standing  in  a 
state  of  violent  excitement,  and  has  with  difficulty  restrained 
himself,  advances). 

"  My  lord,  you  will  not  urge  this  matter  further. 
You  will  not.    It  was  surely  but  a  test. 
You've  gain'd  your  object.    Eigor  push'd  too  far 
Is  sure  to  miss  its  aim,  however  good, 
As  snaps  the  bow  that's  all  too  straitly  bent. 

GESSLER. 
"  Peace,  till  your  counsel's  ask'd  for  I 

RtTDENZ. 

"  I  will  speak  1 

Ay,  and  I  dare !    I  reverence  my  king ; 

But  acts  like  these  must  make  his  name  abhorr'd. 

He  sanctions  not  this  cruelty.    I  dare 

Avouch  the  fact.    And  you  outstep  your  powers 

In  handling  thus  an  unoffending  people. 

GESSLER. 
"  Ha !  thou  grow'st  bold,  methinks ' 


T1IE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLEK.  331 

it.      Tell  then,  looking  at  him  with  the  eye  of  vengeance, 
says  to  him : 

"  Well,  my  lord, 
Since  you  have  promised  not  to  take  my  life, 


EUDKNZ. 

"  I  have  been  dumb 

To  all  the  oppressions  I  was  doom'd  to  see. 
I've  closed  mine  eyes,  that  they  might  not  behold  them, 
Bade  my  rebellious,  swelling  heart  be  still, 
And  pent  its  struggles  down  within  my  breast. 
But  to  be  silent  longer,  were  to  be 
A  traitor  to  my  king  and  country  both. 

BERTHA  (casting  herself  between  Mm  and  the  governor). 
"  0  Heavens !  you  but  exasperate  his  rage ! 

BUDENZ. 

"  My  people  I  forsook — renounced  my  kindred — 
Broke  all  the  ties  of  nature,  that  I  might 
Attach  myself  to  you.     I  madly  thought, 
That  I  should  best  advance  the  general  weal, 
By  adding  sinews  to  the  Emperor's  power. 
The  scales  have  fallen  from  mine  eyes — I  see 
The  fearful  precipice  on  which  I  stand. 
You've  led  my  youthful  judgment  far  astray, — 
Deceived  my  honest  heart.    With  best  intent, 
I  had  well-nigh  achieved  my  country's  ruin. 

GESSLEE. 
"  Audacious  boy,  this  language  to  thy  lord? 

RUDENZ. 

"  The  Emperor  is  my  lord,  not  you !    I'm  free 
As  you  by  birth,  and  I  can  cope  with  you 
In  every  virtue  that  beseems  a  knight. 
And  if  you  stood  not  here  in  that  king's  name, 
Which  I  respect  e'en  where  'tis  most  abused, 
I'd  throw  my  gauntlet  down,  and  you  should  give 
An  answer  to  my  gage  in  knightly  fashion. 
Ay,  beckon  to  your  troopers !    Here  I  stand ; 
But  not  like  these  [Pointing  to  the  people. 

— unarm' d.    I  have  a  sword, 
And  he  that  stirs  one  step 


332  MADAME   DE    STAEL,'s   GEKMANY. 

I  will,  without  reserve,  declare  the  truth. 

[He  drau-s  the  arrow  from  his  belt,  and  fixes  his  eyes  sternly 

upon  the  governor. 

If  that  my  hand  had  struck  my  darling  child, 
This  second  arrow  I  had  aim'd  at  you, 
And,  be  assured,  I  should  not  then  have  miss'd." 

Gessler,  furious  at  these  words,  orders  Tell  to  be  thrown  into 
prison. 

This  scene  possesses,  as  may  be  seen,  all  the  simplicity  of  an 
historical  event  related  in  an  ancient  chronicle.  Wilhelm  Tell 
is  not  represented  as  a  tragic  hero ;  he  did  not  think  of  braving 
Gessler :  he  resembles,  in  all  things,  what  the  peasants  of  Swit- 
zerland generally  are  found  to  be,  calm  in  their  habits,  lovers 
of  repose,  but  terrible  whenever  those  feeling  are  excited  in 
their  souls,  which  slumber  in  the  retirement  of  a  country  life. 
We  are  still  shown,  near  Altorf,  in  the  Canton  of  Uri,  a  stone 
statue  of  coarse  workmanship,  representing  Tell  and  his  son 
after  the  apple  has  been  pierced.  The  father  holds  his  son  by 

STATIFFACHER  (exclaims). 

"  The  apple's  down ! 

[  While  the  attention  of  the  crowd  has  been  directed  to  the  spot 
where  BKBTHA  had  cast  herself  between  EUDENZ  and  GESS- 
LER, TELL  has  shot. 

ROSSELMANH'. 

"  The  boy's  alive ! 

MANY  VOICES. 

"  The  apple  has  been  struck ! 

[WALTER  FURST  staggers,  and  is  about  to  fall.  BERTHA  sup- 
ports him. 

GESSLEE  (astonished). 
"  How  ?    Has  he  shot  ?    The  madman ! 

BERTHA. 

"Worthy  father! 
Pray  you,  compose  yourself.    The  boy's  alive. 

WALTER  (runs  in  with  the  apple) . 

"  Here  is  the  apple,  father !    Well  I  knew, 
You  would  not  harm  your  feoy." — Ed. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER.  333 

one  hand,  and  with  the  other  presses  the  bow  to  his  heart,  as 
if  to  thank  it  for  having  served  him  so  well. 

Tell  is  put  in  chains  into  the  same  boat  in  which  Gessler 
passes  the  Lake  of  Lucerne ;  the  storm  bursts  during  the  pas- 
sage ;  the  barbarian  is  struck  with  fear,  and  asks  his  victim  to 
euccor  him  :  Tell's  chains  are  unbound ;  he  guides  the  bark 
himself  in  the  midst  of  the  storm,  and  as  he  draws  near  the 
rocks,  leaps  swiftly  on  the  craggy  shore.  The  recital  of  this 
event  begins  the  fourth  act.  Hardly  has  he  reached  his  home, 
when  Tell  is  informed  that  he  must  not  expect  to  live  there  in 
peace  with  his  wife  and  children,  and  he  then  takes  the  reso- 
lution of  putting  Gessler  to  death.  His  end  is  not  to  free  his 
country  from  a  foreign  yoke ;  he  scarcely  knows  whether  Aus- 
tria ought,  or  ought  not,  to  govern  Switzerland :  he  knows, 
however,  that  man  has  been  unjust  to  man ;  he  knows  that  a 
father  has  been  compelled  to  shpot  an  arrow  near  the  heart  of 
his  child,  and  he  thinks  that  the  author  of  such  a  crime  de- 
serves to  die. 

His  soliloquy  is  extremely  fine  :  he  shudders  at  the  murder, 
and  yet  has  no  doubt  of  the  lawfulness  of  his  resolution.  He 
compares  the  innocent  purposes  for  which  he  has  hitherto 
employed  his  arrow  at  the  chase  and  in  sport,  with  the  terri- 
ble action  that  he  is  about  to  commit:  he  sits1  on  a  stone 
bench  to  wait  at  the  turn  of  a  road  for  Gessler,  who  is  about 
to  pass  by : 

"I'll  sit  me  down  upon  this  bench  of  stone, 
Hewn  for  the  way-worn  traveller's  brief  repose — 
For  here  there  is  no  home. — Each  hurries  by 
The  other,  with  quick  step  and  careless  look, 
Nor  stays  to  question  of  his  grief. — Here  goes 
The  merchant,  full  of  care, — the  pilgrim,  next, 
With  slender  scrip, — and  then  the  pious  monk, 
The  scowling  robber,  and  the  jovial  player, 
The  carrier  with  his  heavy-laden  horse, 
That  comes  to  us  from  the  far  haunts  of  men ; 
For  every  road  conducts  to  the  world's  end. 

1  Or,  rather,  is  about  to  seat  himself.— Ed. 


334:  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

They  all  push  onwards — every  man  intent 
On  his  own  several  business — mine  is  murder. 

[Sits  down. 

"Time  was,  my  dearest  children,  when  with  joy 
You  hail'd  your  father's  safe  return  to  home 
From  his  long  mountain  toils  ;  for,  when  he  came, 
He  ever  brought  some  little  present  with  him. 
A  lovely  Alpine  flower — a  curious  bird— 
Or  elf-boat,  found  by  wanderer  on  the  hills. — 
But  now  he  goes  in  quest  of  other  game  : 
In  the  wild  pass  he  sits,  and  broods  on  murder ; 
And  watches  for  the  life-blood  of  his  foe. — 
But  still  his  thoughts  are  fix'd  on  you  alone, 
Dear  children. — 'Tis  to  guard  your  innocence, 
To  shield  you  from  the  tyrant's  fell  revenge, 
He  bends  his  bow  to  do  a  deed  of  blood  !"         [Rises. 

Shortly  afterwards,  Gessler  is  perceived  from  a  distance  de- 
scending the  mountain.  An  unhappy  woman  whose  husband 
is  languishing  in  one  of  his  prisons,  throws  herself  at  his  feet, 
and  conjures  him  to  grant  her  his  liberation  ;  he  contemns  and 
repulses  her ;  she  still  insists ;  she  seizes  his  horse's  bridle,  and 
demands  of  him  either  to  trample  her  under  foot,  or  to  restore 
to  her  him  she  loves.  Gessler,  indignant  at  her  complaints, 
reproaches  himself  for  having  yet  indulged  the  people  of  Swit- 
zerland with  too  great  a  portion  of  liberty  : 

"I  will  subdue  this  stubborn  mood  of  theirs, 
And  crush  the  soul  of  liberty  within  them. 
I'll  publish  a  new  law  throughout  the  land ; 
I  will— " 

As  he  pronounces  this  word,  the  mortal  shaft  reaches  him ;  he 
falls,  exclaiming,  "  That  shot  was  Tell's." 

"  Thou  know'st  the  archer,  seek  no  other  hand," 

cries  Tell,  from  the  top  of  the  rock.  The  acclamations  of  the 
people  are  soon  heard,  and  the  deliverers  of  Switzerland  accom- 
plish the  vow  they  had  made,  to  rid  themselves  of  the  yoke  of 
Austria. 

It  seems  that  the  piece  should  naturally  end  here,  as  that  of 
Mary  Stuart  at  her  death ;  but,  in  each,  Schiller  has  added  a 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    SCHILLER. 

sort  of  appendix  or  explanation,  which  can  be  no  more  listened 
to  after  the  principal  catastrophe  is  terminated.  Elizabeth  re- 
appears after  Mary's  execution ;  we  are  made  to  witness  her 
grief  and  vexation  at  hearing  that  Leicester  has  taken  his 
departure  for  France.  This  poetical  justice  ought  to  have 
been  supposed,  and  not  represented  ;  the  spectator  cannot  bear 
the  sight  of  Elizabeth,  after  witnessing  the  last  moments  of 
Mary.  In  the  fifth  act  of  Wilhelm  Tell,  John  the  Parricide, 
who  assassinated  his  uncle  Albert,  because  he  refused  him  his 
birth-right,  comes  disguised  as  a  monk,  to  demand  an  asylum 
of  Tell ;  he  persuades  himself  that  their  acts  are  similar,  and 
Tell  repulses  him  with  horror,  showing  him  how  different  were 
their  motives.  The  putting  these  two  characters  in  opposition 
to  each  other,  is  a  just  and  ingenious  idea ;  yet  this  contrast, 
so  pleasing  in  the  closet,  does  not  answer  on  the  stage.  Genius 
is  of  very  little  importance  in  dramatic  effects ;  it  is,  necessary 
for  the  purpose  of  preparing  them,  but  if  it  were  also  required 
for  the  purpose  of  feeling  them,  this  is  a  task  to  which  even 
the  most  refined  audience  would  be  found  unequal. 

On  the  stage,  the  additional  act  of  John  the  Parricide  is 
suppressed,  and  the  curtain  falls  at  the  moment  when  Gessler's 
heart  is  pierced  by  the  arrow.  A  short  time  after  the  first 
representation  of  Wilhelm  Tell,  the  fatal  shaft  struck  also  the 
worthy  author  of  this  noble  performance.  Gessler  perished  at 
the  moment  when  he  was  occupied  by  the  most  barbarous 
intentions.  The  soul  of  Schiller  was  filled  with  generous  ideas. 
These  two  states  of  mind,  so  contrary  to  each  other,  were 
equally  interrur. ted  by  death,  the  common  enemy  of  all  human 
projects. 


336  MADAME   DE    8TAEL?S    GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN  AND  THE  COUNT  OF  EGMONT. 

THE  dramatic  career  of  Goethe  may  be  considered  in  two 
different  lights.  The  pieces  he  designed  for  representation 
have  much  grace  and  facility,  but  nothing  more.  In  those  of 
his  dramatic  works,  on  the  contrary,  which  it  is  very  difficult 
to  perform,  we  discover  extraordinary  talent.  The  genius  of 
Goethe  cannot  confine  itself  within  the  limits  of  the  theatre ; 
and,  endeavoring  to  subject  itself  to  them,  it  loses  a  portion  of 
originality,  and  does  not  entirely  recover  it  till  again  at  liberty 
to  mix  all  styles  together  as  it  chooses.  No  art,  whatever  it 
be,  can  exist  without  certain  limits ;  painting,  sculpture,  archi- 
tecture, are  subject  to  their  own  peculiar  laws,  and  in  like 
manner  the  dramatic  art  produces  its  effect  only  under  certain 
conditions — conditions  which  sometimes  restrain  both  thought 
and  feeling ;  and  yet  the  influence  of  the  theatre  is  so  great 
upon  the  assembled  audience,  that  one  is  not  justified  in  refus- 
ing to  employ  the  power  it  possesses,  by  the  pretext  that  it 
exacts  sacrifices  which  the  imagination  left  to  itself  would  not 
require.  As  there  is  no  metropolis  in  Germany  to  collect  to- 
gether all  that  is  necessary  to  form  a  good  theatre,  dramatic 
works  are  much  oftener  read  than  performed ;  and  thence  it 
follows  that  authors  compose  their  dramas  with  a  view  to  the 
effect  in  reading,  not  in  acting. 

Goethe  is  almost  always  making  new  experiments  in  litera- 
ture. When  the  German  taste  appears  to  him  to  lean  towards 
an  excess  in  any  respect,  he  immediately  endeavors  to  give  it 
an  opposite  direction.  He  may  be  said  to  govern  the  under- 
standings of  his  contemporaries  as  an  empire  of  his  own,  and 
his  works  may  be  called  decrees,  by  turns  authorizing  or  ban- 
ishing the  abuses  of  art. 


THE   DKAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  337 

Goethe  was  tired  of  the  imitation  of  French  pieces  in  Ger- 
many, and  with  reason ;  for  even  a  Frenchman  might  be  equally 
tired  of  it.  He  therefore  composed  an  historical  tragedy,  in 
the  manner  of  Shakspeare,  Goetz  von  Berlichengen,  This  piece 
was  not  destined  for  the  stage ;  but  it  is  nevertheless  capable 
of  representation,  as  are  all  those  of  Shakspeare  of  the  same 
description.  Goethe  has  chosen  the  same  historical  epoch  as 
Schiller  in  his  play  of  the  Robbers  ;  but  instead  of  presenting 
a  man  who  has  set  himself  free  from  all  the  ties  of  moral  and 
social  order,  he  has  painted  an  old  knight,  under  the  reign  of 
Maximilian,  still  defending  the  chivalrous  manners  and  the 
feudal  condition  of  the  nobility,  which  gave  so  high  an  ascend- 
ency to  their  personal  valor. 

Goetz  von  Berlichingen  was  surnamed  the  Iron-handed,  be- 
cause having  lost  his  right  hand  in  war,  he  had  one  made  for 
him  with  springs,  by  the  aid  of  which  he  held  and  managed 
his  lance  with  dexterity :  he  was  a  knight  renowned  in  his 
time  for  courage  and  loyalty.  This  model  is  happily  chosen 
to  represent  what  was  the  independence  of  the  nobles  before 
the  authority  of  the  government  became  coercive  on  all  men. 
In  the  middle  ages  every  castle  was  a  fortress,  every  noble  a 
sovereign.  The  establishment  of  standing  armies,  and  the  in- 
vention of  artillery,  effected  a  total  change  in  social  order ;  a 
sort  of  abstract  power  was  introduced  under  the  name  of  the 
state  or  the  nation ;  but  individuals  lost,  by  degrees,  all  their 
importance.  A  character  like  that  of  Goetz  must  have  suffered 
from  this  change,  whenever  it  took  place. 

The  military  spirit  has  always  been  of  a  ruder  cast  in  Ger- 
many than  anywhere  else,  and  it  is  there  that  we  might  figure 
to  ourselves,  as  real,  those  men  of  iron  whose  images  are  still 
to  be  seen  in  the  arsenals  of  the  empire.  Yet  the  simplicity 
of  chivalrous  manners  is  painted  in  Goethe's  tragedy  with 
many  charms.  This  aged  Goetz,  living  in  the  midst  of  battles, 
sleeping  in  his  armor,  continually  on  horseback,  never  resting 
except  when  beseiged,  employing  all  his  resources  for  war,  con- 
templating nothing  besides — this  aged  Goetz,  I  say,  gives  us 
the  highest  idea  of  the  interest  and  activity  which  human  life 

VOL.  I.— 15 


338  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

possessed  in  those  ages.  His  virtues,  as  well  as  his  defects, 
are  strongly  marked  ;  nothing  is  more  generous  than  his  re- 
gard for  Weislingen,  once  his  friend,  then  his  adversary,  and 
often  engaged  even  in  acts  of  treason  against  him.  The  sen- 
sibility shown  by  an  intrepid  warrior,  awakens  the  soul  in  an 
entirely  new  manner  ;  we  have  time  to  love  in  our  inactive 
state  of  existence  ;  but  these  lightnings  of  passion  which  enable 
us  to  read  in  the  bottom  of  the  heart,  through  the  medium  of 
a  stormy  existence,  cause  a  sentiment  of  profound  emotion. 
We  are  so  afraid  of  meeting  with  affectation  in  the  noblest  gift 
of  heaven,  sensibility,  that  we  sometimes  prefer  in  the  expres- 
sion of  it  even  rudeness  itself  as  the  pledge  of  sincerity. 

The  wife  of  Goetz  presents  herself  to  the  imagination  like 
an  old  portrait  of  the  Flemish  school,  in  which  the  dress,  the 
look,  the  very  tranquillity  of  the  attitude,  announce  a  woman 
submitted  to  the  will  of  her  husband,  knowing  him  only,  ad- 
miring him  only,  and  believing  herself  destined  to  serve  him, 
as  he  is  to  defend  her.  By  way  of  contrast  to  this  most  excel- 
lent woman,  we  have  a  creature  altogether  perverse,  Adelaide, 
who  seduces  Weislingen,  and  makes  him  fail  in  the  promise 
he  had  given  to  his  friend ;  she  marries,  and  soon  after  proves 
faithless  to  him.  She  renders  herself  passionately  beloved  by 
her  page,  and  bewilders  the  imagination  of  this  unhappy 
young  man  to  such  a  degree  as  to  prevail  upon  him  to  give  a 
poisoned  cup  to  his  master.  These  features  are  strong,  but 
perhaps  it  is  true  that  when  the  manners  of  a  nation  ate  gen- 
erally very  pure,  the  woman  who  estranges  herself  from  them 
soon  becomes  entirely  corrupted ;  the  desire  of  pleasing  is  in 
our  days  no  more  than  a  tie  of  affection  and  kindness ,  but  in 
the  strict  domestic  life  of  a  former  age,  it  was  an  error  capable 
of  involving  all  others  in  its  consequences.  This  guilty  Ade- 
laide gives  occasion  to  one  of  the  finest  scenes  in  the  play,  the 
sitting  of  the  secret  tribunal. 

O 

Mysterious  judges,  unknown  to  one  another,  always  masked, 
and  meeting  at  night,  punished  in  silence,  and  only  engraved 
on  the  poinard  which  they  plunged  into  the  bosom  of  the 
culprit  this  terrible  motto :  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL.  They 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  GOETHE.  339 

acquainted  the  condemned  person  with  his  sentence  by  having 
it  cried  three  times  under  his  window,  Woe,  woe,  ww  !  Thus 
was  the  unfortunate  man  given  to  know  that,  everywhere,  in 
the  stranger,  in  the  fellow-citizen,  in  the  kinsman  even,  he 
might  find  his  murderer.  In  the  crowd  and  in  solitude,  in  the 
city  and  in  the  country,  all  places  were  filled  by  the  invisible 
presence  of  that  armed  conscience  which  persecuted  the  guilty 
One  may  conceive  how  necessary  this  terrible  institution  might 
have  been,  at  a  time  when  every  man  was  powerful  against  all 
men,  instead  of  all  being  invested  with  the  power  which  they 
ought  to  possess  over  each  individual.  It  was  necessary  that 
justice  should  surprise  the  criminal  before  he  was  able  to  de- 
fend himself;  but  this  punishment  which  hovered  in  the  air 
like  an  avenging  shade,  this  mortal  sentence  which  might  be 
harbored  even  in  the  bosom  of  a  friend,  inspired  an  invincible 
terror. 

There  is  another  fine  situation, — that  in  which  Goetz,  in 
order  to  defend  himself  in  his  castle,  commands  the  lead  to  be 
stripped  from  the  windows  to  melt  into  balls.  There  is  in  this 
character  a  contempt  of  futurity,  and  an  intenseness  of  strength 
at  the  present  moment,  that  are  altogether  admirable.  At  last 
Goetz  beholds  all  his  companions  in  arms  perish ;  he  remains 
wounded,  a  prisoner,  and  having  only  his  wife  and  sister  left 
by  his  side.  He  is  surrounded  by  women  alone — he  who  de- 
sired to  live  among  men,  among  men  of  unconquerable  spirits 
— that  he  might  exert  with  them  the  force  of  his  character  and 
the  strength  of  his  arm.  He  thinks  on  the  name  that  he  must 
leave  behind  him;  he  reflects,  now  that  he  is  about  to  die. 
He  asks  to  behold  the  sun  once  more,  he  thinks  on  God,  who 
never  before  occupied  his  thoughts,  but  of  whose  existence  he 
never  doubted,  and  dies  with  gloomy  courage,  regretting  his 
warlike  pleasures  more  than  life  itself. 

This  play  is  much  liked  in  Germany ;  the  national  manners 
and  customs  of  times  of  old,  are  faithfully  represented  by  it, 
and  whatever  touches  on  ancient  chivalry  moves  the  hearts  of 
the  Germans.  Goethe,  the  most  careless  of  all  men,  because 
he  is  sure  of  leading  the  taste  of  his  audience,  did  not  give 


340  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY, 

himself  the  trouble  even  of  putting  his  play  into  verse ;  it  is 
the  sketch  of  a  great  picture,  but  hardly  enough  finished  even 
as  a  sketch.  One  perceives  in  the  writer  so  great  an  impa- 
tience of  all  that  can  be  thought  to  bear  a  resemblance  to  af- 
fectation, that  he  disdains  even  the  art  that  is  necessary  to  give 
a  durable  form  tc  his  compositions.  There  are  marks  of  ge- 
nius scattered  here  and  there  through  his  drama,  like  the 
touches  of  Michael  Angelo's  pencil ;  but  it  is  a  work  defective, 
or  rather  which  makes  us  feel  the  want  of  many  things.  The 
reign  of  Maximilian,  during  which  the  principal  event  is  sup- 
posed to  pass,  is  not  sufficiently  marked.  In  short,  we  may 
venture  to  censure  the  author  for  not  having  enough  exercised 
his  imagination  in  the  form  and  language  of  the  piece.  It  is 
true  that  he  has  intentionally  and  systematically  abstained  from 
indulging  it ;  he  wished  the  drama  to  be  the  action  itself ;  for- 
getting that  the  charm  of  the  ideal  is  that  which  ought  to  pre- 
side over  all  things  in  dramatic  works.  The  characters  01 
tragedies  are  always  in  danger  of  being  either  common  or  fac- 
titious, and  it  is  incumbent  on  genius  to  preserve  them  equally 
from  each  extreme.  Shakspeare,  in  his  historical  pieces,  never 
ceases  to  be  a  poet,  nor  Racine  to  observe  with  exactness  the 
manners  of  the  Hebrews  in  his  lyrical  tragedy  of  Athalie.  The 
dramatic  talent  can  dispense  neither  with  nature  nor  with  art ; 
art  is  totally  distinct  from  artifice,  it  is  a  perfectly  true  and 
spontaneous  inspiration,  which  spreads  a  universal  harmony 
over  particular  circumstances,  and  the  dignity  of  lasting  re- 
membrances over  fleeting  moments. 


The  Count  of  Egmont1  appears  to  me  the  finest  of  Goethe's 
tragedies ;  he  wrote  it,  I  believe,  at  the  same  time,  when  he 
composed  Werther  ;  the  same  warmth  of  soul  is  alike  percept- 
ible in  both.  The  play  begins  at  the  moment  when  Philip  II, 
weary  of  the  mild  government  of  Margaret  of  Parma,  in  the 
Low  Countries,  sends  the  Duke  of  Alva  to  supply  her  place. 

1  Goethe's  own  title  of  the  piece  is  simply  Egmont. — Ed. 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  GOETHE.  341 

The  king  is  troubled  by  the  popularity  which  the  Prince  of 
Orange  and  the  Count  of  Egmont  have  acquired  ;  he  suspects 
them  of  secretly  favoring  the  partisans  of  the  Reformation. 
Every  thing  is  brought  together  that  can  furnish  the  most  at- 
tractive idea  of  the  Count  of  Egmont.  He  is  seen  adored  by 
the  soldiers  at  the  head  of  whom  he  has  borne  away  so  many 
victories.  The  Spanish  princess  trusts  his  fidelity,  even  though 
she  knows  how  much  he  censures  the  severity  that  has  been 
employed  against  the  Protestants.  The  citizens  of  Brussels 
look  on  him  as  the  defender  of  their  liberties  before  the  throne ; 
and,  to  complete  the  picture,  the  Prince  of  Orange,  whose  pro- 
found policy  and  silent  wisdom  are  so  well  known  in  history, 
sets  off  still  more  the  generous  imprudence  of  Egmont,  in  vainly 
entreating  him  to  depart  with  himself  before  the  arrival  of  the 
Duke  of  Alva.  The  Prince  of  Orange  is  a  wise  and  noble  char- 
acter ;  an  heroic  but  inconsiderate  self-devotion  can  alone  resist 
his  counsels.  The  Count  of  Egmont  resolves  not  to  abandon  the 
inhabitants  of  Brussels ;  he  trusts  himself  to  his  fate,  because 
his  victories  have  taught  him  to  reckon  upon  the  favors  of  for- 
tune, and  he  always  preserves  in  public  business  the  same  qual- 
ities that  have  thrown  so  much  brilliancy  over  his  military 
character.  These  noble  and  dangerous  qualities  interest  us  in 
his  destiny ;  vre  feel  on  his  account,  fears  which  his  intrepid 
soul  never  allowed  him  to  experience  for  himself;  the  general 
effect  of  his  character  is  displayed  with  great  art  in  the  impres- 
sion which  it  is  made  to  produce  on  all  ihe  different  persons 
by  whom  he  is  surrounded.  It  is  easy  to  trace  a  lively  por- 
trait of  the  hero  of  a  piece ;  it  requires  more  talent  to  make 
him  act  and  speak  conformably  to  this  portrait,  and  more  still 
to  make  him  known  by  the  admiration  that  ha  inspires  in  the 
soldiers,  the  people,  the  great  nobility,  in  all  that  bear  any  re- 
lation to  him. 

The  Count  of  Egmont  is  in  love  with  a  young  girl,  Clara, 
born  in  the  class  of  citizens  at  Brussels ;  he  goes  to  visit  her 
in  her  obscure  retreat.  This  love  has  a  larger  place  in  the 
heart  of  the  young  girl  than  in  his  own ;  the  imagination  of 
Clara  is  entirely  subdued  by  the  lustre  of  the  Count  of  Eg- 


342  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

mont,  by  the  dazzling  impression  of  his  heroic  valor  and  bril- 
liant refutation.  There  are  goodness  and  gentleness  in  the 
love  of  Egmont ;  in  the  society  of  this  young  person  he  finds 
repose  from  trouble  and  solicitude.  "  They  speak  to  you,"  he 
says,  "  of  this  Egmont,  silent,  severe,  authoritative  ;  who  is  made 
to  struggle  with  events  and  with  mankind;  but  he  who  is  sim- 
ple, loving,  confiding,  happy — that  Egmont,  Clara,  is  thine."1 
The  love  of  Eo-mont  for  Clara  would  not  be  sufficient  for  the 

O 

interest  of  the  piece  ;  but  when  misfortune  is  joined  to  it,  this 
sentiment  which  before  appeared  'only  in  the  distance,  acquires 
an  admirable  strength. 

The  arrival  of  the  Spaniards  with  the  Duke  of  Alva  at  their 
head  being  made  known,  the  terror  spread  by  that  gloomy  na 
tion  among  the  joyous  people  of  Brussels  is  described  in  a  su- 
perior manner,  At  the  approach  of  a  violent  storm,  men  retire 
to  their  houses,  animals  tremble,  birds  take  a  low  flight,  and 
seem  to  seek  an  asylum  in  the  earth ;  all  nature  seems  to  pre- 
pare itself  to  meet  the  scourge  which  threatens  it :  thus  terror 
possessed  the  minds  of  the  unfortunate  inhabitants  of  Flanders. 
The  Duke  of  Alva  is  not  willing  to  have  the  Count  of  Egmont 
arrested  in  the  streets  of  Brussels ;  he  fears  an  insurrection  of 
the  people,  and  wishes  if  possible  to  draw  his  victim  to  his  own 
palace,  which  commands  the  city,  and  adjoins  the  citadel.  He 
employs  his  own  son,  young  Ferdinand,  to  prevail  on  the  man 

1  The  following  is  the  entire  passage  in  the  version  of  Miss  Anna  swan- 
wick  : 

"Seest  thou,  Clara?  Let  me  sit  down !  (He  seats  himself,  she  kneels  on  a, 
footstool  before  him,  rests  her  arms  on  Ms  knees,  and  looks  tip  in  his  face.) 
That  Egmont  is  a  morose,  cold,  unbending  Egmont,  obliged  to  be  upon 
his  guard,  to  assume  now  this  appearance  and  now  that :  harassed,  mis- 
apprehended, and  perplexed,  when  the  crowd  esteem  him  light-hearted  and 
gay;  beloved  by  a  people  who.  do  not  know  their  own  minds;  honored 
and  extolled  by  the  Intractable  multitude  ;  surrounded  by  friends  in  whom 
he  dares  not  confide  :  observed  by  men  who  are  on  the  watch  to  supplant 
him ;  toiling  and  striving,  often  without  an  object,  generally  without  a  re- 
ward. Oh,  let  me  conceal  how  it  fares  with  him,  let  me  not  speak  of  his 
feelings  !  But  this  Egmont,  Clara,  is  calm,  unreserved,  happy,  beloved  by 
the  best  of  hearts,  which  is  also  thoroughly  known  lo  him,  and  which  he 
presses  to  his  own  with  unbounded  confidence  and  love.  (He  embraces  tier.) 
This  is  thy  Egmont."— Ed, 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  343 

he  wishes  to  ruin,  to  enter  his  abode.  Ferdinand  is  an  enthu- 
siastic admirer  of  the  hero  of  Flanders  ;  he  has  no  suspicion  of 
the  horrid  designs  of  his  father,  and  displays  a  warmth  and 
ardor  of  character  which  persuades  the  Count  of  Egmont  that 
the  father  of  such  a  son  cannot  be  his  enemy.  Egmont  con- 
sents to  accompany  him  to  the  Duke  of  Alva ;  that  perfidious 
and  faithful  representative  of  Philip  II  expects  him  with  an  im- 
patience which  makes  one  shudder  ;  he  places  himself  at  the 
window,  and  perceives  him  at  a  distance,  mounted  on  a  superb 
horse,  which  he  had  taken  in  one  of  his  victorious  battles. 
The  Duke  of  Alva  feels  a  cruel  and  increasing  joy  at  every 
step  which  Egmont  makes  towards  his  palace  ;  when  the  horse 
stops,  he  is  agitated ;  his  guilty  heart  pants  to  effect  his  crimi- 
nal purpose  ;  and  when  Egmont  enters  the  court  he  cries : 
"  One  foot  is  in  the  tomb,  another  step  !  the  grated  entrance 
closes  on  him,  he  is  mine !  "  1 

The  Count  of  Egmont  having  entered,  the  duke  discourses 
with  him  for  some  time  on  the  government  of  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, and  on  the  necessity  of  employing  rigor  to  restrain  the 
progress  of  the  new  opinions ;  he  has  no  longer  any  interest 
in  deceiving  Egmont,  and  yet  he  feels  a  pleasure  in  his  crafti- 
ness, and  wishes  still  to  enjoy  it  a  few  moments  ;  at  length  he 
rouses  the  generous  soul  of  Egmont,  and  irritates  him  by  dis- 
putation in  order  to  draw  from  him  some  violent  expressions. 
He  affects  to  be  provoked  by  them,  and  performs,  as  by  a  sud- 
den impulse,  what  he  had  calculated  on  and  determined  to  do 
long  before.  Why  so  many  precautions  with  a  man  who  is 
already  in  his  power,  and  whom  he  has  determined  to  deprive, 
in  a  few  hours,  of  existence  ?  It  is  because  the  political  assas- 
sin always  retains  a  confused  desire  of  justifying  himself,  even 
in  the  eyes  of  his  victim ;  he  wishes  to  say  something  in  his 

1  Alva  soliloquizes  thus: — "'Tishe!  Egmont!  Did  thy  steed  bear  thee 
hither  so  lightly,  and  started  not  at  the  scent  of  blood,  at  the  spirit  with 
the  naked  sword  who  received  thee  at  the  gate ?  Dismount!  Lo,  now  thou 
hast  one  foot  in  the  grave!  And  now  both!  Ay,  caress  him,  and  for  the 
last  time  stroke  his  neck  for  the  gallant  service  he  has  rendered  thee.  And 
for  me  no  choice  is  left.  The  delusion,  in  which  Egmont  ventures  here  to- 
day, cannot  a  second  time  deliver  him  into  my  hands  !  " — Ed. 


MADAME    DK    STAEL'S    GEBMAXY. 

excuse  even  when  all  lie  can  allege  persuades  neither  himself 
nor  any  other  person.  Perhaps  no  man  is  capable  of  entering 
on  a  criminal  act  without  some  subterfuge,  and  therefore  the 
true  morality  of  dramatic  works  consists  not  in  poetical  justice 
which  the  author  dispenses  as  he  thinks  fit.  and  of  which  his- 
tory so  often  shows  us  the  fallacy,  but  in  che  art  of  painting 
vice  and  virtue  in  such  colors  as  to  inspire  us  with  hatred  for 
the  one  and  love  for  the  other. 

The  report  of  the  Count  of  Egmont's  arrest  was  scarcely 
spread  through  Brussels  before  it  is  known  that  he  must  per- 
ish. No  one  expects  justice,  his  terrified  adherents  venture 
not  a  word  in  his  defence,  and  suspicion  soon  separates  those 
whom  the  same  interest  had  before  united.  An  apparent  sub- 
mission arises  from  the  terror  which  every  individual  feels  and 
inspires  in  his  turn,  and  the  panic  which  pervades  them  all, 
that  popular  cowardice  which  so  quickly  succeeds  a  state  of 
unusual  exaltation,  is  in  this  part  of  the  work  most  admirably 
described. 

Clara  alone,  that  timid  girl  who  scarcely  ever  ventured  to 
leave  her  own  abode,  appears  in  the  public  square  at  Brussels, 
reassembles  by  her  cries  the  citizens  who  had  dispersed,  recalls 
to  their  recollection  the  enthusiasm  which  the  name  of  Eg- 
mont  had  inspired,  the  oath  they  had  taken  to  die  for  him  :  all 
who  hear  her  shudder. 

JETTEB, 
"  Speak  not  the  name,  'tis  deadly. 

CLARA. 

"Not  speak  his  name?  Not  Egmont's  name  ?  Is  it  not  on  every 
tongue  ?  Does  it  not  appear  everywhere  legibly  inscribed  ?  I  read  it 
emblazoned  in  golden  letters  among  the  stars.  Not  utter  it  ?  What 
mean  ye  1  Friends !  good,  kind  neighbors  !  ye  are  dreaming  ;  col- 
lect yourselves.  Gaze  not  upon  me  with  those  fixed  and  anxious 
looks !  Cast  not  such  timid  glances  on  every  side  !  I  but  give  utter- 
ance to  the  wish  of  all.  Is  not  my  voice  the  voice  of  your  own  hearts  1 
Who,  in  this  fearful  night,  ere  lie  seeks  his  restless  couch,  but  on 
bended  knee,  will  in  earnest  prayer  seek  to  wrest  his  life  as  a  cher- 
ished boon  from  heaven  1  Ask  each  other !  Let  each  ask  his  own 
heart !  And  who  but  exclaims  with  me — '  Egmont's  liberty,  or  death  ! ' 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  345 

JETTER. 
"  God  help  us  !     This  is  a  sad  business. 

CLARA. 

"  Stay  !  stay  !  Shrink  not  away  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  to  meet 
whom  ye  were  wont  to  press  forward  so  joyously  ! — When  rumor 
announced  his  approach,  when  the  cry  arose,  '  Egmont  comes  !  He 
comes  from  Ghent ! ' — then  happy  indeed  were  those  citizens  who 
dwelt  in  the  streets  through  which  he  was  to  pass.  And  when  the 
neighing  of  his  steed  was  heard,  did  not  every  one  throw  aside  his 
work,  while  a  ray  of  hope  and  joy,  like  a  sunbeam  from  his  counte- 
nance, stole  over  the  toil  worn  faces  that  peered  from  every  window  ? 
Then,  as  ye  stood  in  the  doorways,  ye  would  lift  up  your  children  in 
your  arms  and  pointing  to  him,  exclaim  :  '  See,  that  is  Egmont,  he 
who  towers  above  "the  rest !  'Tis  from  him  that  ye  must  look  for  bet- 
ter times  than  those  your  poor  fathers  have  known.'  Let  not  your 
children  inquire  at  some  future  day,  '  Where  is  he  ?  Where  are  the 
better  times  you  promised  us  ? ' — Thus  we  waste  the  time  in  idle  words  ' 
do  nothing, — betray  him. 

SOEST. 

"  Shame  on  thee,  Brackenburg  !  Let  her  not  run  on  thus ;  prevent 
the  mischief. 

BRACKENBURG. 

"  Dear  Clara !  —Let  us  go  !  What  will  your  mother  say  ?  Per- 
chance— 

CLARA. 

"  Think  you  I  am  a  child,  a  lunatic  ?  What  avails  perchance  ?-— 
With  no  vain  hope  can  you  hide  from  me  this  dreadful  certainty. 
Ye  shall  hear  me  and  ye  will ;  for  I  see  it,  ye  are  overwhelmed,  ye 
cannot  hearken  to  the  voice  of  your  own  hearts.  Through  the  pres- 
ent peril  cast  but  one  glance  into  the  past, — the  recent  past.  Send 
your  thoughts  forward  into  the  future.  Could  ye  live,  would  ye  live, 
were  he  to  perish  ?  With  him  expires  the  last  breath  of  freedom. 
What  was  he  not  to  you?  For  whose  sake  did  he  expose  himself  to 
the  direst  perils  ?  His  blood  flowed,  his  wounds  were  healed  for  you 
alone.  A  dungeon  now  confines  that  mighty  spirit  that  upheld  you 
all,  while  around  him  hover  the  terrors  of  secret  assassination.  Per- 
haps, he  thinks  of  you, — perhaps  he  hopes  in  you, — he  who  has  been 
accustomed  only  to  grant  favors  to  others  and  to  fulfil  their  prayers. 

CARPENTER. 

"  Come,  gossip. 

15* 


346  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

CLARA. 

"  I  have  neither  the  arms,  nor  the  strength  of  a  man  ;  but  I  have 
that  which  ye  all  lack — courage  and  contempt  of  danger.  Oh,  that 
my  breath  could  kindle  your  souls  !  That,  pressing  you  to  this  bosom, 
I  could  arouse  and  animate  you  !  Come  !  I  will  march  in  your 
midst !  As  a  waving  banner,  though  weaponless,  leads  on  a  gallant 
army  of  warriors,  so  shall  my  spirit  hover,  like  a  flame,  over  your 
ranks,  while  love  and  courage  shall  unite  the  dispersed  and  wavering 
multitude  into  a  terrible  host." 

Brackenburg  informs  Clara  that  they  perceive,  not  far  from 
them,  some  Spanish  soldiers,  who  may  possibly  listen  to  them. 

BRACKENBURG. 
"  Clara  ?     See  you  not  where  we  are  ? 

CLARA. 

"  Where  1  Under  the  dome  of  heaven,  which  has  so  often  seemed  to 
arch  itself  more  gloriously  as  the  noble  Egiuont  passed  beneath  it. 
From  these  windows  I  have  seen  them  look  forth,  four  or  five  heads 
one  above  the  other  ;  at  these  doors  the  cowards  have  stood,  bowing 
and  scraping,  if  the  hero  but  chanced  to  look  down  upon  them  !  Oh  ! 
how  dear  they  were  to  me,  when  they  honored  him  !  Had  he  been  a 
tyrant,  they  might  have  turned  with  indifference  from  his  fall ;  but 
they  loved  him  !  0  ye  hands,  so  prompt  to  wave  caps  in  his  honor, 
can  ye  not  grasp  a  sword  ?  And  yet,  Brackenburg,  is  it  for  us  to  chide 
them  ?  These  arms  that  have  so  often  embraced  him,  what  do  they 
for  him  now  ?  Stratagem  has  accomplished  so  much  in  the  world. 
You  know  the  ancient  castle,  every  passage,  every  secret  way." 

Brackenburg  draws  Clara  to  her  own  habitation,  and  goes 
out  again  to  inquire  the  fate  of  the  Count  of  Egmont.  He 
returns,  and  Clara,  whose  last  resolution  is  already  taken,  insists 
on  his  relating  to  her  all  that  he  has  heard : 

"  Speak  to  me  of  him  !    Is  it  true  ?    Is  he  condemned  ? 

BRACKENBURG. 
"  He  is !     I  know  it. 

CLARA. 

"  And  still  lives  ? 

BRACKENBURG. 
"  Yes,  he  still  lives. 


THE   DRAMAS   OF    GOETHE.  3i7 

CLAKA. 

•'  How  can  you  be  sure  of  that  ?  Tyranny  murders  its  victim  in  the 
night !  His  blood  flows  concealed  from  every  eye.  The  people, 
stunned  and  bewildered,  lie  buried  in  sleep,  dream  of  deliverance, 
dream  of  the  fulfilment  of  their  impotent  wishes,  while,  indignant  at 
our  supineness,  his  spirit  abandons  the  world.  He  is  110  more  !  De- 
ceive me  not ;  deceive  not  thyself ! 

BRACKENBURG. 

"No, — he  lives!  and  the  Spaniards,  alas!  are  preparing  for  the 
people,  on  whom  they  are  about  to  trample,  a  terrible  spectacle,  in 
order  to  crush,  by  a  violent  blow,  each  heart  that  yet  pants  for  free- 
dom. 

CLARA. 

"  Proceed  !  Calmly  pronounce  my  death-warrant  also  !  Near  and 
more  near  I  approach  that  blessed  land,  and  already  from  those  realms 
of  peace,  I  feel  the  breath  of  consolation.  Say  on. 

BRACKENBURG. 

"  From  casual  words,  dropped  here  and  there  by  the  guards,  I  learn- 
ed that  secretly,  in  the  market-place,  they  were  preparing  some  terri- 
ble spectacle.  Through  by-ways  and  familiar  lanes  I  stole  to  my 
cousin's  house,  and  from:  a  back  window  looked  out  upon  the  market- 
place. Torches  waved  to  and  fro,  in  the  hands  of  a  wide  circle  of 
Spanish  soldiers.  I  strained  my  unaccustomed  sight,  and  out  of  the 
darkness  there  arose  before  me  a  scaffold,  dark,  spacious,  and  lofty  ! 
The  sight  rilled  me  with  horror.  Several  persons  were  employed  in 
covering  with  black  cloth  such  portions  of  the  woodwork  as  yet  remaiiv 
exposed.  The  steps  were  covered  last,  also  with  black  ; — I  saw  it  all. 
They  seemed  preparing  for  the  celebration  of  some  horrible  sacrifice. 
A  white  crucifix,  that  shone  like  silver  through  the  night,  was  raised 
on  one  side.  As  I  gazed,  the  terrible  conviction  strengthened  in  my 
mind.  Scattered  torches  still  gleamed  here  and  there  ;  gradually  they 
flickered  and  went  out.  Suddenly,  the  hideous  birth  of  night  returned 
into  its  mother's  womb." 

The  son  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  discovers  that  he  has  been 
made  the  instrument  of  Egmont's  destruction,  and  he  deter- 
mines, at  all  hazards,  to  save  him  ;  Egmont  demands  of  him 
only  one  service,  which  is  to  protect  Clara  when  he  shall  be 
no  more  ;  but  we  learn  that,  resolved  not  to  survive  the  man 


318  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

she  loved,  she  has  destroyed  herself.  Egmont  is  executed; 
and  the  bitter  resentment  which  Ferdinand  feels  against  his 
father,  is  the  punishment  of  the  Duke  of  Alva,  who,  it  is  said, 
never  loved  any  thing  on  earth  except  that  son. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  with  a  few  variations,  it  would  be  possi- 
ble to  adapt  this  play  to  the  French  model.  I  have  passed 
over  in  silence  some  scenes  which  could  not  be  introduced  on 
our  stage.  In  the  first  place,  that  with  which  the  tragedy 
begins  :  some  of  Egmont's  soldiers,  and  some  citizens  of  Brus- 
sels, aie  conversing  together  on  the  subject  of  his  exploits.  In 
a  dialogue,  very  lively  and  natural,  they  relate  the  principal 
actions  of  his  life,  and  in  their  language  and  narratives  show 
the  high  confidence  with  which  he  had  inspired  them.  Tis 
thus  that  Shakspeare  prepares  the  entrance  of  Julius  Caesar ; 
and  the  Camp  of  Wullenstein  is  composed  with  the  same  inten- 
tion. 'But  in  France  we  should  not  endure  a  mixture  of  the 
language  of  the  people  with  that  of  tragic  dignity ;  and  this 
frequently  gives  monotony  to  our  second-rate  tragedies.  Pom- 
pous expressions,  and  situations  always  heroic,  are  necessarily 
few  in  number ;  besides,  tender  emotions  rarely  penetrate  to 
the  bottom  of  the  soul,  when  the  imagination  is  not  previously 
captivated  by  those  simple  but  true  details  which  give  life  to 
the  smallest  circumstances. 

The  family  to  which  Clara  belongs  is  represented  as  com- 
pletely that  of  a  citizen;  her  mother  is  extremely  vulgar  ;  he 
who  is  to  marry  her  is  indeed  passionately  attached  to  her, 
but  one  does  not  like  to  consider  Egmont  as  the  rival  of  such 
an  inferior  man  ;  every  thing  that  surrounds  Clara  serves,  it  is 
true,  to  set  off  the  purity  of  her  soul ;  nevertheless,  in  France 
we  should  not  allow  in  the  dramatic  art  one  of  the  first  prin- 
ciples in  that  of  painting — the  shade  which  renders  the  light 
more  striking.  As  we  see  both  of  these  at  once  in  a  picture, 
we  receive,  at  the  same  time,  the  effect  of  both  :  it  is  not  the 
same  in  a  theatrical  performance,  where  the  action  follows 
in  succession  ;  the  scene  which  hurts  our  feelings  is  not  toler- 
ated, in  consideration  of  the  advantageous  light  it  is  to  throw 
on  the  following  scene ;  and  we  expect  that  the  contrast  shall 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  GOETHE.  349 

consist  in  beauties,  different,  indeed,  but  which  shall  neverthe- 
less be  beauties.1 

The  conclusion  of  Goethe's  tragedy  does  not  harmonize  with 
the  former  part ;  the  Count  of  Egmont  falls  asleep  a  few  min- 


1  "  In  Schiller's  critique  upon  the  tragedy  of  Egmont,  Goethe  is  censured 
for  departing  from  the  truth  of  history,  in  the  delineation  of  his  hero's 
character,  and  also  for  misrepresenting  the  circumstances  of  his  domestic 
life.  The  Egmont  of  history  left  behind  him  a  numerous  family,  anxiety 
for  whose  welfare  detained  him  in  Brussels,  when  most  of  his  friends  sought 
safety  in  flight.  His  withdrawal  would  have  entailed  the  confiscation  of 
his  property,  and  he  shrank  from  expo^ng  to  privation  those  whose  happi- 
ness was  dearer  to  him  than  life ; — a'rionsideration  which  he  repeatedly 
urged  in  his  conferences  with  the  Prince  of  Orange,  when  the  latter  insist- 
ed upon  the  necessity  of  escape.  We  see  here,  not  the  victim  of  a  blind 
and  foolhardy  confidence,  as  portrayed  in  Goethe's  drama,  but  the  husband 
and  father,  regardless  of  his  personal  safety,  in  anxiety  for  the  interests  of 
his  family.  I  shall  not  inquire  which  conception  is  best  suited  for  the  pur- 
poses of  art,  but  merely  subjoin  a  few  extracts  from  the  same  critique,  in 
which  Schiller  does  ample  justice  to  Goethe's  admirable  delineation  of  the 
age  and  country  in  which  the  drama  is  cast,  and  which  are  peculiarly  valua- 
ble from  the  pen  of  so  competent  an  authority  as  the  historian  of  the  Fall 
of  the  Netherlands. 

"  '  Egmont's  tragical  death  resulted  from  the  relation  in  which  he  stopd 
to  the  nation  and  the  government ;  hence,  the  action  of  the  drama  is  int^i 
mately  connected  with  the  political  life  of  the  period — an  exhibition  of 
which  forms  its  indispensable  groundwork.  But,  if  we  consider  what  an 
infinite  number  of  minute  circumstances  must  concur,  in  order  to  exhibit 
the  spirit  of  an  age,  and  the  political  condition  of  a  people,  and  the  art  re- 
quired to  combine  so  many  isolated  features  into  an  intelligible  and  organic 
whole ;  anckjf  we  contemplate,  moreover,  the  peculiar  character  pf  the 
Netherlands,  consisting  not  of  one  nation,  but  of  an  aggregate  of  many 
smaller  States,  separated  from  each  other  by  the  sharpest  contrasts,  we 
shall  not  cease  to  wonder  at  the  creative  genius,  which,  triumphing  over 
all  these  difficulties,  conjures  up  before  us,  as  with  an  enchanter's  wand, 
the  Netherlands  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

" '  Not  only  do  we  behold  these  men  living  and  working  before  us,  we 
dwell  among  them  as  their  familiar  associates  ;  we  see,  on  the  one  hand, 
the  joyous  sociability,  the  hospitality,  the  loquacity,  the  somewhat  boastful 
temper  of  the  people,  their  republican  spirits,  ready  to  boH  up  at  the  slight- 
est innovation,  and  often  subsiding  again  as  rapidly,  on  the  most  trivial 
grounds ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  we  are  made  acquainted  with  the  bur- 
dens under  which  they  groaned,  from  the  new  mitres  of  the  bishops,  to 
the  French  psalms  which  they  were  forbidden  to  sing :  nothing  is  omitted, 
no  feature  introduced,  which  does  not  bear  the  stamp  of  nature  and  of 
truth.  Such  delineation  is  not  the  result  of  premeditated  effort,  nor  can  it 
be  commanded  by  art ;  it  can  only  be  achieved  by  the  poet  whose  mind  is 


350  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

utes  before  he  ascends  the  scaffold.  Clara,  who  is  dead, 
appears  to  him  during  his  sleep,  surrounded  with  celestial 
brilliancy,  and  informs  him  that  the  cause  of  liberty,  which  he 
had  served  so  well,  will  one  day  triumph.  This  wonderful 
denohment  cannot  accord  with  an  historical  performance.  The 
Germans  are,  in  general,  embarrassed  about  the  conclusion 
of  their  pieces ;  and  the  Chinese  proverb  is  particularly  appli- 
cable to  them,  which  says,  "  When  we  have  ten  steps  to  take, 
the  ninth  brings  us  half  way."  The  talent  necessary  to  finish 
a  composition  of  any  kind,  demands  a  sort  of  skill  and  measure 
which  scarcely  agrees  with  the  vague  and  indefinite  imagina- 
tion displayed  by  the  Germans  in  all  their  works.  Besides,  it 
requires  art,  and  a  great  deal  of  art,  to  find  a  proper  denoit- 
ment,  for  there  are  seldom  any  in  real  life :  facts  are  linked 
one  to  the  other,  and  their  consequences  are  lost  in  the  lapse 
of  time.  The  knowledge  of  the  theatre  alone  teaches  us  to 
circumscribe  the  principal  event,  and  make  all  the  accessory 
ones  concur  to  the  same  purpose.  But  to  combine  effects 

thoroughly  imbued  with  his  subject ;  from  him,  such  traits  escape  uncon- 
sciously, and  without  design,  as  they  do  from  the  individuals  whose  charac- 
ters they  serve  to  portray. 

" '  The  few  scenes  in  which  the  citizens  of  Brussels  are  introduced, 
appear  to  us  to  be  the  result  of  profound  study,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find,  in  so  few  words,  a  more  admirable  historical  monument  of  the  Nether- 
lands of  that  period. 

" '  Equally  graphic  is  that  portion  of  the  picture  which  portrays  the 
spirit  of  the  Government,  though  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  artist  has 
here  somewhat  softened  down  the  harsher  features  of  the  original.  This 
.is  especially  true  in  reference  to  the  character  of  the  Duchess  of  Parma. 
Before  his  Duke  of  Alva  we  tremble,  without,  however,  turning  from  him 
with  aversion ;  he  is  a  firm,  rigid,  inaccessible  character :  "  a  brazen  tower 
without  gates,  the  garrison  of  which  must  be  furnished  with  wings."  The 
prudent  forecast  with  which  he  makes  his  arrangements  for  Egmont's 
arrest,  excites  our  admiration,  while  it  removes  him  from  our  sympathy. 
The  remaining  characters  of  the  drama  are  delineated  with  a  few  masterly 
strokes.  The  subtle,  taciturn  Orange,  with  his  timid,  yet  comprehensivs 
and  all-combining  mind,  is  depicted  in  a  single  scene.  Both  Alva  and 
Egmont  are  mirrored  in  the  men  by  whom  they  are  sur-ounded.  This 
mode  of  delineation  is  admirable.  The  poet,  in  order  to  concentrate  'he 
interest  upon  Egmont,  has  isolated  his  hero,  and  omitted  all  mention  of 
Count  Horn,  who  shared  the  same  melancholy  fate.'  " — (Miss  Swanwick, 
Dramatic  Works  of  Goethe,  pp.  xv.  xvi.  London,  1851.) — Ed. 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  GOETHE.  351 

seems  to  the  Germans  almost  like  hypocrisy  ;  and  the  spirit  of 
calculation  appears  to  them  irreconcilable  with  inspiration. 

Of  all  their  writers,  however,  Goethe  is  certainly  best  able  to 
unite  the  skill  of  genius  with  its  boldness ;  but  he  does  not 
vouchsafe  to  give  himself  the  trouble  of  arranging  dramatic 
situations  so  as  to  render  them  properly  theatrical.  If  they 
are  fine  in  themselves,  he  cares  for  nothing  more.  His  Ger- 
man audience  at  Weimar  ask  no  better  than  to  wait  the  de- 
velopment of  his  plans,  and  to  guess  at  his  intention ;  as 
patient,  as  intelligent  as  the  ancient  Greek  chorus,  they  do  not 
expect  merely  to  be  amused,  as  sovereigns  commonly  do ; 
whether  they  are  people  or  kings,  they  contribute  to  their 
own  pleasure,  by  analyzing  and  explaining  what  did  not  at  first 
strike  them  :  such  a  public  is  truly  like  an  artist  in  its  judg- 
ments. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

IPHIGENIA   IN   TAURIS,    TORQUATO    TASSO,   ETC.,  ETC. 

IN  Germany  were  represented  familiar  comedies,  melodra 
mas,  and  grand  spectacles,  filled  with  horses  and  knights. 
Goethe  wished  to  bring  back  literature  to  the  severity  of 
ancient  times,  and  he  composed  his  Iphigenia.  in  Tauris,  which 
is  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  classical  poetry  among  the  Germans. 
This  tragedy  recalls  the  sort  of  impression  which  we  receive 
in  contemplating  Grecian  statues ;  the  action  of  it  is  so  com- 
manding, and  yet  so  tranquil,  that  even  when  the  situation  of 
the  personages  is  changed,  there  is  always  in  them  a  sort  of 
dignity  which  fixes  the  recollection  of  every  moment  on  the 
memory. 

The  subject  of  Iphigenia  in  Tauris  is  so  well  known,  that  it 
was  difficult  to  treat  it  in  a  new  manner.  Goethe  has,  never- 
theless, succeeded  in  giving  a  character  truly  admirable  to  his 
heroine  The  Antigone  of  Sophocles  is  a  saint,  such  as  a 


352  MADAME   DE    STAEL'g    GERMANY. 

• 

religion  more  pure  than  that  of  the  ancients  might  have  repre- 
sented to  us.  The  Iphigenia  of  Goethe  has  not  less  respect  to 
truth  than  Antigone ;  but  she  unites  the  calmness  of  a  philos- 
opher with  the  fervor  of  a  priestess :  the  chaste  worship  01 
Diana,  and  the  asylum  of  a  temple,  satisfy  that  contemplative 
existence  which  the  regret  of  being  exiled  from  Greece  imparts 
to  her.  She  wishes  to  soften  the  manners  of  the  barbarous 
country  which  she  inhabits ;  and  though  her  name  is  unknown, 
she  sheds  benefactions  around  her  befitting  a  daughter  of  the 
King  of  Kings.  Nevertheless,  she  ceases  not  to  regret  the 
beautiful  country  in  which  her  infancy  was  passed,  and  her 
soul  is  filled  with  a  firm  yet  gentle  resignation,  Avhich  it  may 
be  said  holds  the  middle  space  between  Stoicism  and  Christi- 
anity. Iphigenia  somewhat  resembles  the  divinity  she  serves ; 
and  imagination  represents  her  as  surrounded  with  a  cloud, 
which  conceals  from  her  her  country.  In  reality,  could  exile, 
and  exile  far  from  Greece,  allow  any  enjoyment  except  that 
which  is  found  in  the  internal  resources  of  the  mind  ?  Ovid 
also,  when  condemned  to  spend  his  days  not  far  from  Tauris, 
in  vain  uttered  his  harmonious  language  to  the  inhabitants  of 
those  desolate  shores :  in  vain  he  sought  the  arts,  a  favoring 
sky,  and  that  sympathy  of  thought  which  makes  us  taste  some 
of  the  pleasures  of  friendship,  even  in  the  society  of  those 
•who  have  no  responsive  feeling,  and  would  be  otherwise  indif- 
ferent to  us.  His  genius  recoiled  on  itself,  and  his  suspended 
lyre  breathed  none  but  plaintive  sounds,  a  mournful  accompa- 
niment to  the  northern  blast. 

It  appears  to  me  that  no  modern  work  surpasses  the  Iphi- 
genia of  Goethe  in  depicting  the  destiny  which  hung  so  heavily 
on  the  race  of  Tantalus,  and  the  dignity  of  the  misfortunes 
caused  by  an  invincible  fatality.  A  religious  dread  is  felt 
through  the  whole  narration,  and  the  personages  themselves 
seem  to  speak  prophetically,  and  to  act  under  the  immediate 
influence  of  the  gods. 

Goethe  has  made  Thoas  the  deliverer  of  Iphigenia,  A  fero- 
cious character,  such  as  many  authors  have  represented  him, 
would  not  have  accorded  with  the  general  color  of  iie  piece ; 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   GOETHE. 

he  would  have  destroyed  its  harmony.  In  many  tragedies  a 
tyrant  is  exhibited  as  a  sort  of  machine  on  which  the  business 
of  the  piece  depends  ;  but  the  reflecting  mind  of  Goethe  would 
never  have  brought  such  a  personage  into  action  without  de- 
veloping his  character.  Now  a  criminal  character  is  always 
too  complicated  to  enter  properly  into  a  subject  treated  in  so 
simple  a  manner  as  this  is.  Thoas  loves  Iphigenia ;  he  cannot 
resolve  to  separate  himself  from  her  by  suffering  her  to  return 
into  Greece  with  her  brother  Orestes.  Iphigenia  might  indeed 
depart  unknown  to  Thoas :  she  debates  with  her  brother  and 
•with  herself,  whether  she  ought  to  allow  herself  to  act  in  so 
deceitful  a  manner,  and  this  forms  the  plot  or  the  intrigue  of 
the  last  part  of  the  piece.  At  length  Iphigenia  avows  her 
whole  design  to  Thoas,  combats  his  opposition  to  it,  and  obtains 
from  him  the  word  adieu,  after  which  the  curtain  drops. 

Certainly  the  subject  thus  conceived  is  pure  and  noble,  and 
it  would  be  desirable  that  an  audience  might  be  interested  and 
affected  merely  by  a  scruple  of  delicacy ;  but  in  the  present 
state  of  the  theatre  this  is  not  sufficient,  and  we  are  therefore 
interested  more  in  reading  this  piece  than  in  seeing  it  repre- 
sented. Such  a  tragedy  excites  admiration  rather  than  sym- 
pathy ;  we  listen  to  it  as  to  a  canto  of  an  epic  poem ;  and  the 
calm  which  pervades  the  whole  reaches  almost  to  Orestes  him- 
self. The  scene  in  which  Iphigenia  and  Orestes  recognize 
each  other  is  not  the  most  animated,  though  it  is  perhaps  the 
most  poetical  part  of  the  piece.  The  family  of  Agamemnon 
is  recalled  to  remembrance  in  a  manner  so  admirably  skilful, 
that  the  pictures  with  which  both  history  and  fable  have  en- 
riched antiquity  seem  all  to  pass  before  our  eyes.  We  are 
interested  also  by  the  finest  language  and  most  elevated  sen- 
timents. Poetry  so  sublime  raises  the  soul  to  noble  contem- 
plation, which  renders  dramatic  variety  and  action  almost 
unnecessary. 

Among  the  great  number  of  passages  worthy  of  quotation 
in  this  piece,  there  is  one  which  seems  perfectly  new.  Iphi- 
genia, in  her  affliction,  recollects  a  song  formerly  known  in 
her  family,  and  taught  her  by  her  nurse  in  her  infancy :  'tis 


354:  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

the  song  which  the  Parcse  address  to  Tantalus  in  the  infernal 
regions.  They  recall  to  his  recollection  his  former  glory,  when 
he  was  the  guest  of  the  gods  at  the  golden  table ;  they  de- 
scribe the  terrible  moment  when  he  was  hurled  from  his 
throne,  the  punishment  inflicted  on  him  by  the  gods,  the  tran- 
quillity of  those  deities  who  preside  over  the  universe — a  tran- 
quillity not  to  be  shaken  even  by  the  torments  and  lamenta- 
tions of  hell.  These  menacing  Parcae  inform  the  descendants 
of  Tantalus  that  the  gods  will  forsake  them,  because  their 
features  recall  the  remembrance  of  their  father.  The  aged 
Tantalus,  plunged  in  eternal  night,  hears  this  sad  song,  thinks 
on  his  children,  and  bows  down  his  guilty  head.  Images  the 
most  striking,  and  a  rhythm  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  senti- 
ment, give  to  this  poetry  the  dr  and  energy  of  a  national  song. 
It  is  the  greatest  effort  of  talent  thus  to  familiarize  us  with 
antiquity,  and  to  seize  at  the  same  time  what  would  have  been 
popular  among  the  Greeks,  and  what  produces  also,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  so  many  ages,  an  impression  equally  solemn. 

The  admiration  of  Goethe's  Iphigenia  in  Tauris,  which  it  is 
impossible  for  us  not  to  feel,  does  not  contradict  what  I  have 
said  on  the  more  lively  interest  and  warmer  degree  of  feeling 
which  we  may  experience  from  modern  subjects.  Those  man- 
ners and  that  religion,  the  traces  of  which  are  almost  effaced 
through  the  lapse  of  ages,  present  man  to  us  almost  as  an 
ideal  being,  who  scarcely  touches  the  earth  on  which  he 
moves ;  but  in  the  epochs  and  events  of  history  which  still 
influence  the  present  moment,  we  feel  the  warmth  of  our  own 
existence,  and  we  expect  affections  similar  to  those  by  which 
we  are  agitated. 

It  appears  to  me  then  that  Goethe  ought  not  to  have  placed 
in  his  piece  of  Torquato  Tasso,  the  same  simplicity  of  action 
and  calm  dignity  of  dialogue  which  was  suitable  to  his  Iphige- 
nia. That  calmness  and  simplicity  appears  cold  and  unnatural 
in  a  subject  so  modern  in  every  respect  as  that  of  the  personal 
character  of  Tasso  and  the  intrigues  of  the  court  of  Ferrara. 

Goethe  wished  to  display  in  this  piece  the  opposition  which 
exists  between  poetry  and  the  relations  of  social  life ;  between 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   GOETHE.  3-") 5 

the  character  of  a  poet  and  that  of  a  man  of  the  world.  He 
has  shown  the  injurious  effect  produced  by  the  patronage  of  a 
prince  on  the  delicate  imagination  of  an  author,  even  when 
that  prirce  thinks  himself  a  lover  of  literature,  or  at  least 
takes  a  pride  in  appearing  to  be  so.  This  contrast  between 
nature  highly  exalted  and  cultivated  by  poetry,  and  nature 
chilled  but  guided  by  the  narrow  views  of  policy,  is  an  idea 
which  becomes  the  parent  of  a  thousand  others. 

A  literary  character  in  the  court  of  a  prince  at  first  natu- 
rally thinks  himself  happy  in  being  so  situated ;  but  in  time 
it  is  impossible  for  him  to  avoid  feeling  some  of  the  troubles 
which  rendered  the  life  of  Tasso  so  miserable.  Talents  which 
are  not  perfectly  free  from  restraint  cease  to  be  talents ;  and 
nevertheless  it  is  very  seldom  that  princes  acknowledge  the 
rights  and  privileges  of  the  imagination,  and  know  at  once 
how  to  consider  and  guide  it  properly.  It  was  scarcely  pos- 
sible to  choose  a  happier  subject  than  that  of  Tasso  at  Ferrara 
to  display  the  different  characters  of  a  poet,  a  courtier,  a  prin- 
cess, and  a  prince,  acting  in  a  little  circle  with  a  degree  of 
selfish  harshness  sufficient  to  set  the  world  in  motion.  The 
morbid  sensibility  of  Tasso  is  well  known,  as  well  as  the  pol- 
ished rudeness  of  his  protector  Alphonso,  who,  professing  the 
highest  admiration  for  his  writings,  shut  him  up  in  a  mad- 
house, as  if  that  genius  which  springs  from  the  soul  were  to 
be  treated  like  the  production  of  a  mechanical  talent,  by  valu- 
ing the  work  while  we  despise  the  workman. 

Goethe  has  described  Leonora  d'Este,  the  sister  of  the  Duke 
of  Ferrara,  who  was  in  secret  beloved  by  the  poet,  as  enthusias- 
tic in  her  desires,  but  weak  from  motives  of  prudence.  He 
has  introduced  into  his  piece  a  courtier,  wise  according  to  the 
world,  who  treats  Tasso  with  that  superiority,  which  the  man 
of  business  conceives  he  possesses  over  the  poet,  and  who  irri- 
tates him  by  the  calmness  and  dexterity  with  which  he  wounds 
without  precisely  giving  him  any  specific  cause  of  offence. 
This  cold-blooded  man  preserves  his  advantage,  and  provokes 
his  enemy  by  dry  and  ceremonious  manners  which  continually 
offend  without  affording  ground  of  complaint.  This  is  the 


356  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

great  evil  arising  from  a  certain  sort  of  knowledge  of  the 
world  ;  and  in  this  sense  eloquence  and  the  art  of  speaking  dif- 
fer extremely,  for  to  become  eloquent  it  is  necessary  to  free 
truth  from  all  its  restraints,  and  penetrate  to  the  bottom  of  the 
soul,  which  is  the  seat  of  conviction ;  but  dexterity  of  speech 
consists,  on  the  contrary,  in  the  talent  of  evading  and  parry- 
ing adroitly  phrases  which  one  does  not  choose  to  understand, 
making  use  of  the  same  arms  to  indicate  every  thing  offensive 
without  its  being  in  the  power  of  your  opponent  to  prove  that 
you  have  said  any  thing  which  ought  to  give  offence. 

This  species  of  fencing  inflicts  much  suffering  on  a  mind  im- 
bued with  truth  and  sensibility.  The  man  who  makes  use  of 
it  seems  your  superior,  because  he  knows  how  to  awaken  your 
feeling  while  he  himself  remains  undisturbed ;  but  we  should 
not  suffer  ourselves  to  be  imposed  on  by  this  sort  of  negative 
strength.  Calmness  of  mind  is  excellent  when  it  is  the  result 
of  that  energy  which  makes  us  support  our  own  troubles,  .but 
when  it  arises  from  indifference  to  those  of  others,  this  calm- 
ness is  nothing  more  than  a  disdainful  selfishness.  A  year's 
abode  in  a  court  or  a  capital  is  sufficient  to  teach  us  with  ease, 
how  to  mix  address  and  grace  with  this  sort  of  selfishness  :  but 
to  be  truly  worthy  of  distinguished  esteem,  it  is  necessary,  in 
one's  own  character,  as  in  a  fine  literary  composition,  to  unite 
opposite  qualities — the  knowledge  of  affairs  with  a  love  of  tho 
beautiful,  and  that  wisdom  which  results  from  our  intercourse 
with  mankind,  with  the  flights  of  imagination  inspired  by  feel- 
ing for  the  arts.  It  is  true  that  such  an  individual  would  con- 
tain in  himself  two  distinct  characters.  Thus  Goethe  in  this 
very  piece  says  that  the  two  personages  which  he  contrasts 
with  each  other,  the  courtier  and  the  poet,  are  the  two  halves 
of  one  man.  But  sympathy  cannot  exist  between  these  two 
halves,  because  there  is  no  prudence  in  the  character  of  Tasso 
and  no  sensibility  in  that  of  his  opponent. 

The  painful  susceptibility  of  literary  men  was  obviously  dis- 
played in  Rousseau  and  Tasso,  and  is  still  more  commonly  man- 
ifested in  the  works  of  German  authors.  French  writers  have 
been  more  rarely  affected  by  it ;  by  living  in  confinement  and 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  GOKTHE.  357 

solitude,  we  find  it  difficult  to  support  the  external  air.  So- 
ciety is  in  many  respects  painful  to  those  who  have  not  been 
early  accustomed  to  it,  and  the  irony  of  the  world  is  more 
fatal  to  men  of  talent  than  to  all  others :  good  sense  alone 
would  support  them  better.  Goethe  might  have  chosen  the 
life  of  Rousseau  as  an  example  of  that  struggle  between  society 
such  as  it  is,  and  society  such  as  a  poetical  imagination  sees  or 
wishes  it  to  be ;  but  the  situation  of  Rousseau  afforded  much 
less  scope  for  imagination  than  that  of  Tasso.  Jean  Jacques 
dragged  a  great  genius  into  very  subaltern  situations.  Tasso, 
brave  as  the  knights  he  sung,  in  love,  beloved,  persecuted, 
crowned  with  laurel,  and  still  young,  dying  with  grief  on  the 
very  eve  of  his  triumph,  is  a  striking  example  of  the  splendor 
and  the  misfortunes  attendant  on  distinguished  talents. 

It  appears  to  me  that  in  this  composition  the  warm  coloring 
of  the  South  is  not  sufficiently  expressed,  and  perhaps  it  would 
be  difficult  to  transfuse  into  the  German  language  that  sensa- 
tion which  is  produced  by  the  Italian.  It  is  nevertheless 
above  all  in  the  characters  that  the  traits  of  Germanic  rather 
than  of  Italian  nature,  are  discoverable.  Leonora  d'Este  is  a 
German  princess.  The  analysis  of  her  own  character  and  sen- 
timents with  which  she  is  continually  occupied,  is  not  at  all  in 
the  spirit  of  the  South.  There  the  imagination  recoils  not  on 
itself;  it  advances  without  a  retrospective  glance.  It  traces 
not  an  event  to  its  source ;  it  resists  or  yields  to  it  without  ex- 
amining its  cause. 

Tasso  is  also  a  German  poet.  That  impossibility  of  getting 
rid  of  the  difficulties  which  arise  from  the  usual  circumstances 
of  common  life,  which  Goethe  attributes  to  Tasso,  is  a  trait  of 
the  contemplative  and  confined  life  peculiar  to  northern  writers. 
The  poets  of  the  South  hav-?  generally  no  such  incapacity,  they 
live  more  commonly  in  the  open  air,  in  public  streets  and 
squares,  and  above  all  things,  men  are  more  familiar  to  them. 

The  language  of  Tasso,  in  this  piece  of  Goethe,  is  often  too 
metaphysical.  The  madness  of  the  author  of  the  Jerusalem 
did  not  arise  from  an  abuse  of  philosophical  reflections,  nor 
from  a  deep  examination  of  what  passes  in  the  bottom  of  the 


358  MADAME   DK    BTAKL's    GERMAMr. 

heart ;  it  was  occasioned  rather  by  a  too  lively  impression  of 
external  objects,  by  the  intoxication  of  pride  and  of  love :  he 
scarcely  made  use  of  words  but  as  harmonious  sounds  ;  the  se- 
cret of  his  soul  was  neither  in  his  discourse  nor  in  his  writings  : 
having  never  observed  himself,  how  could  he  reveal  himself  to 
others?  besides,  he  considered  poetry  as  a  very  brilliant  art, 
and  not  as  a  confidential  disclosure  of  the  sentiments  of  the 
heart.  It  is  clear  to  me  both  by  his  Italian  constitution,  his 
Life  and  his  Letters,  and  even  by  the  poems  he  composed  during 
his  imprisonment,  that  the  impetuosity  of  his  passions  rather 
than  the  depth  of  his  thoughts  occasioned  his  melancholy; 
there  was  not  in  his  character,  as  in  that  of  the  German  poets, 
that  continual  mixture  of  reflection  and  activity,  of  analysis 
and  enthusiasm,  by  which  existence  is  so  singularly  disturbed. 
There  is  an  incomparable  elegance  and  dignity  in  the  poetic 
style  of  Tasso,  by  which  Goethe  shows  himself  the  Racine  of 
Germany.  But  if  Racine  is  reproached  for  the  little  interest 
inspired  by  Berenice,  we  may  with  much  more  reason  blame 
the  dramatic  coldness  of  Goethe's  Tasso ;  the  design  of  the 
author  was  to  penetrate  into  characters,  merely  by  sketching 
their  situations ;  but  is  this  possible  ?  From  what  sort  of  na- 
ture do  we  extract  those  long  conversations,  full  of  wit  and  ima- 
gination, which  are  held  by  all  the  different  personages  in  turn  ? 
Who  speaks  thus  of  himself  and  of  every  thing?  who  would 
thus  exhaust  all  that  can  possibly  be  said  without  thinking  it 
necessary  to  act  ?  Whenever  the  smallest  action  is  perseiva- 
ble  in  this  piece,  we  feel  ourselves  relieved  by  it  from  the  con- 
tinual attention  we  have  been  paying  to  ideas  alone,  The 
scene  of  the  duel  between  the  poet  and  the  courtier  is  extreme- 
ly interesting;  the  rage  of  the  one  and  the  dexterity  of  the 
other,  develop  their  situation  in  a  very  striking  manner.  It 
is  exacting  too  much  either  from  readers  or  spectators  to  ex- 
pect them  to  renounce  all  interest  in  the  circumstance  of  the 
performance,  merely  to  attach  themselves  to  the  imagery  and 
thoughts  which  it  contains.  In  that  case  it  would  be  needless 
to  pronounce  proper  names,  to  suppose  scenes,  acts,  a  begin- 
ning or  an  end,  or  any  thing,  in  short,  which  renders  action 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  359 

necessary.  In  the  quietness  of  repose  we  love  contemplation, 
but  when  we  are  in  motion  whatever  is  dilatory  is  fatiguing. 

By  a  singular  vicissitude  in  taste,  the  Germans  first  attacked 
our  dramatic  writers  as  transforming  all  their  heroes  into 
Frenchmen.  They  with  reason  appealed  to  historical  truth,  to 
animate  their  colors  and  vivify  their  poetry ;  then  all  at  once 
they  grew  tired  of  their  own  success  in  this  species  of  com- 
position, and  they  composed  abstract  pieces,  if  we  may  be 
allowed  so  to  call  them,  in  which  the  social  relations  of  men 
to  each  other  are  indicated  in  a  general  manner,  independent 
of  time,  place,  or  individuality.  It  is  thus,  for  instance,  that 
in  the  Natural  Daughter,*  another  piece  of  Goethe,  the  author 
calls  his  personages,  the  duke,  the  king,  the  father,  the  daugh- 
ter, etc.,  without  any  other  designation, — considering  the  epoch 
in  which  the  action  of  the  play  passes,  the  names  of  the  per- 
sonages, and  the  country  in  which  they  live,  as  so  many  vul- 
gar concerns,  too  low  for  the  dignity  of  poetry. 

Such  a  tragedy  is  indeed  fit  to  be  acted  in  the  palace  of 
Odin,  where  the  dead  are  accustomed  to  continue  the  occupa- 
tions which  employed  them  during  their  lives;  there,  the 
huntsman,  himself  a  shadow,  pursues  with  ardor  the  shadow 
of  a  stag,  and  phantoms  of  warriors  combat  on  a  groundwork 
of  clouds.  It  appears  that  for  a  time  Goethe  was  quite  dis- 
gusted with  the  interest  taken  in  theatrical  performances  :  thai 
interest  was  sometimes  found  in  bad  compositions ;  he  there- 
fore thought  it  should  be  banished  from  the  good.  A  superior 
writer  ought  not,  however,  to  disdain  what  is  universally  pleas- 
ing ;  he  ought  not  to  abjure  his  resemblance  to  our  common 
nature,  if  he  wishes  to  be  valued  for  that  which  distinguishes 
him.  The  point  which  was  sought  for  by  Archimedes,  to  ena- 
ble him  to  lift  up  the  world,  is  exactly  that  by  which  an  extra- 
ordinary genius  approaches  the  common  class  of  mankind. 
This  point  of  contact  enables  him  to  raise  himself  above  others ; 
he  must  set  out  from  what  he  experiences  in  common  with 
us  all,  to  make  us  feel  what  he  alone  perceives.  Besides,  if  it 

1  NatiirUche  Tochter.—Ed, 


360  MADAME    DE    STAKES    GERMAXY. 

be  true  that  the  despotism  of  our  rules  of  propriety  mixes  often 
something  factitious  with  our  finest  French  tragedies,  we  do 
not  find  more  truth  in  the  extravagant  theories  of  a  systematic 
mind  :  and  if  there  be  a  want  of  nature  in  exaggeration,  a  cer- 
tain sort  of  calmness  is  also  an  affectation.  It  is  a  self-assumed 
superiority  over  the  emotions  of  the  soul  which  may  suit  phi- 
losophy, but  which  will  not  at  all  accord  with  the  dramatic 
art. 

We  may  without  fear  address  these  criticisms  to  Goethe,  lor 
almost  all  his  works  are  composed  on  different  systems.  Some- 
times he  abandons  himself  wholly  to  passion,  as  in  Werther 
and  Count  Egmont ;  at  other  times  his  fugitive  poetry  sets  all 
the  chords  of  imagination  in  vibration ;  again,  he  gives  us 
historical  facts  with  the  most  scrupulous  truth,  as  in  Goetz  von 
Berlichingen  ;  at  another  time  he  has  all  the  simplicity  of  an- 
cient times,  as  in  Herman  and  Dorothea.  In  fine,  he  plunges 
himself  with  Faust  into  the  stormy  whirlwinds  of  life ;  then, 
all  at  once,  in  Tasso,  the  Natural  Daughter,  and  even  in 
Iphigenia,  he  considers  the  dramatic  art  as  a  monument  erect- 
ed among  tombs.  His  works  have  then  the  fine  ^orms,  the 
splendor  and  dazzling  whiteness  of  marble,  but,  like  it,  they 
are  also  cold  and  inanimate.  We  cannot  criticise  Goethe  as  a 
good  author  in  one  species  of  writing,  while  he  is  bad  in  an- 
other. He  rather  resembles  nature,  which  produces  every 
thing,  and  from  every  thing;  and  we  may  like  his  southern 
climate  better  than  that  of  the  north,  without  denying  to  him 
those  talents  which  are  suitable  to  all  the^rious  regions  of 
the  souL 


,'%fciri< 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  3d 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FAUST. 

AMONG  the  pieces  "written  for  the  performance  of  puppets, 
there  is  one  entitled  Dr.  Faust,  or  Fatal  Science,  which  has 
always  had  great  success  in  Germany.  Lessing  took  up  this 
subject  before  Goethe.  This  wonderful  history  is  a  tradition 
very  generally  known.  Several  English  authors  have  written 
the  life  of  this  same  Dr.  Faust,  and  some  of  them  have  even 
attributed  to  him  the  art  of  printing.  His  profound  knowl- 
edge did  not  preserve  him  from  being  weary  of  life ;  in  order* 
to  escape  from  it,  he  tried  to  enter  into  a  compact  with  the 
devil,  who  concludes  the  whole  by  carrying  him  off.  From 
these  slender  materials  Goethe  has  furnished  the  astonishing 
work,  of  which  I  will  now  try  to  give  the  idea. 

Certainly,  we  must  not  expect  to  find  in  it  either  taste,  or 
measure,  or  the  art  that  selects  and  terminates;  but  if  the 
imagination  could  figure  to  itself  an  intellectual  chaos,  such  as 
the  material  chaos  has  often  been  painted,  the  Faust  of  Goethe 
should  have  been  composed  at  that  epoch.  It  cannot  be  ex- 
ceeded in  boldness  of  conception,  and  the  recollection  of  this 
production  is  always  attended  with  a  sensation  of  giddiness. 
The  devil  is  the  hero  of  the  piece ;  the  author  has  not  con- 
ceived him  like  a  hideous  phantom,  such  as  he  is  usually  rep- 
resented to  children ;  he  has  made  him,  if  we  may  so  express 
ourselves,  the  Evil  Being  par  excellence,  before  whom  all  others, 
that  of  Cresset  in  particular,  are  only  novices,  scarcely  worthy 
to  be  the  servants  of  Mephistopheles  (this  is  the  name  of  the 
demon  who  has  made  himself  the  friend  of  Faust).  Goethe 
•wished  to  display  in  this  character,  at  once  real  and  fanciful, 
the  bitterest  pleasantry  that  contempt  can  inspire,  and  at  the 
same  time  an  audacious  gayety  that  amuses.  There  is  an  in- 

Vot.  I.— 16 


3G2  MADAME    PE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

fernal  irony  in  the  discourses  of  Mephistopheles,  which  extends 
itself  to  the  whole  creation,  and  criticises  the  universe  like  a 
bad  book  of  which  the  devil  has  made  himself  the  censor. 

Mephistopheles  makes  sport  with  genius  itself,  as  with  the 
most  ridiculous  of  all  absurdities,  when  it  leads  men  to  take  a 
serious  interest  in  any  thing  that  exists  in  the  world,  and  above 
all  when  it  gives  them  confidence  in  their  own  individual 
strength.  It  is  singular  that  supreme  wickedness  and  divine 
wisdom  coincide  in  this  respect, — that  they  equally  recognize 
the  vanity  and  weakness  of  all  earthly  things :  but  the  one 
proclaims  this  truth  only  to  disgust  men  with  what  is  good, 
the  other  only  to  elevate  them  above  what  is  evil. 

If  the  play  of  Faust  contained  only  a  lively  and  philosophi- 
cal pleasantry,  an  analogous  spirit  might  be  found  in  many  of 
Voltaire's  writings ;  but  we  perceive  in  this  piece  an  imagina- 
tion of  a  very  different  nature.  It  is  not  only  that  it  displays 
to  us  the  moral  world,  such  as  it  is,  annihilated,  but  that  hell 
itself  is  substituted  in  the  place  of  it.  There  is  a  potency  of 
sorcery,  a  poetry  belonging  to  the  principle  of  evil,  a  delirium 
of  wickedness,  a  distraction  of  thought,  which  make  us  shud- 
der, laugh,  and  cry  in  a  breath.  It  seems  as  if  the  govern- 
ment of  the  world  were,  for  a  moment,  entrusted  to  the  hands 
of  the  demon.  You  tremble,  because  he  is  pitiless  ;  you  laugh, 
because  he  humbles  the  satisfaction  of  self-love ;  you  weep, 
because  human  nature,  thus  contemplated  from  the  depths  of 
hell,  inspires  a  painful  compassion. 

Milton  has  drawn  his  Satan  larger  than  man ;  Michael  An- 
gelo  and  Dante  have  given  him  the  hideous  figure  of  the  brute 
combined  with  the  human  shape.  The  Mephistopheles  of 
Goethe  is  a  civilized  devil.  He  handles  with  dexterity  that 
ridicule,  so  trifling  in  appearance,  which  is  nevertheless  often 
found  to  consist  with  a  profundity  of  malice ;  he  treats  all  sen- 
sibility as  silliness  or  affectation ;  his  figure  is  ugly,  low,  and 
crooked ;  he  is  awkward  without  timidity,  disdainful  without 
pride;  he  affects  something  of  tenderness  with  the  women, 
because  it  is  only  in  their  company  that  he  needs  to  deceive, 
in  order  to  seduce  :  and  what  he  understands  by  seduction,  is 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  3G3 

to  minister  to  the  passions  of  others,  for  he  cannot  even  imitate 
love.  This  is  the  only  dissimulation  that  is  impossible  to 
him. 

The  character  of  Mephistopheles  supposes  an  inexhaustible 
knowledge  of  social  life,  of  nature,  and  of  the  marvellous. 
Th's  play  of  Faust  is  the  nightmare  of  the  imagination,  but  it 
is  a  nightmare  that  redoubles  its  strength.  It  discovers  the 
diabolical  revelation  of  incredulity,  of  that  incredulity  which 
attaches  itself  to  every  thing  that  can  ever  exist  of  good  in 
this  world ;  and  perhaps  this  might  be  a  dangerous  revelation, 
if  the  circumstances  produced  by  the  perfidious  intentions  of 
Mephistopheles  did  not  inspire  a  horror  of  his  arrogant  lan- 
guage, and  make  known  the  wickedness  which  it  covers. 

In  the  character  of  Faust  all  the  weaknesses  of  humanity 
are  concentered :  desire  of  knowledge,  and  fatigue  of  labor ; 
wish  of  success  and  satiety  of  pleasure.  It  presents  a  perfect 
model  of  the  changeful  and  versatile  being  whose  sentiments 
are  yet  more  ephemeral  than  the  short  existence  of  which  he 
complains.  Faust  has  more  ambition  than  strength ;  and  this 
inward  agitation  produces  his  revolt  against  nature,  and  makes 
him  have  recourse  to  all  manner  of  sorceries,  in  order  to  escape 
from  the  hard  but  necessary  conditions  imposed  upon  mortal- 
ity. He  is  discovered,  in  the  first  scene,  surrounded  by  his 
books,  and  by  an  infinite  number  of  mathematical  instruments 
and  chemical  phials.  His  father  had  also  devoted  himself  to 
science,  and  transmitted  to  him  the  same  taste  and  habits.  A 
solitary  lamp  enlightens  this  gloomy  retreat,  and  Faust  pursues 
without  intermission  his  studies  of  nature,  and  particularly  of 
magic,  many  secrets  of  which  are  already  in  his  possession. 

He  invokes  one  of  the  creating  Genii  of  the  second  order ; 
the  spirit  appears,  and  counsels  him  not  to  elevate  himself 
above  the  sphere  of  the  human  understanding.1 


»  We  gladly  avail  ourselves  of  the  very  fine  version  of  Faust,  by  Mr. 
Charles  T.  Brooks.  His  elegant  and  faithful  rendering  of  this  marvellous 
poem,  is  a  triumph  of  translation  and  a  new  glory  of  American  litera- 
ture.— Ed. 


364:  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

FAUST. 
"Away,  intolerable  sprite! 

SPIRIT. 

"Thou  breath'st  a  panting  supplication 
To  hear  my  voice,  my  face  to  see  ; 
Thy  mighty  prayer  prevails  on  me, 
I  come  ! — what  miserable  agitation 
Seizes  this  demigod  !     Where  is  the  cry  of  thought  ? 
Where  is  the  breast  ?  that  in  itself  a  world  begot, 
And  bore  and  cherish'd,  that  with  joy  did  tremble 
And  fondly  dream  us  spirits  to  resemble. 
Where  art  thou,  Faust?  whose  voice  rang  through  my  ear, 
Whose  mighty  yearning  drew  me  from  my  sphere? 
Is  this  thing  thou  ?  that,  blasted  by  my  breath, 
Through  all  life's  windings  shuddereth, 
A  shrinking,  cringing,  writhing  worm  ! 

FAUST. 

"  Thee,  flame-born  creature,  shall  I  fear  ? 
"Tis  I,  'tis  Faust,  behold  thy  peer  ! 

SPIRIT. 

"  In  life's  tide-currents,  in  action's  storm, 
Up  and  down,  like  a  wave, 
Like  the  wind  I  sweep ! 
Cradle  and  grave — 
A  limitless  deep — 
An  endless  weaving 
To  and  fro, 
A  restless  heaving 
Of  life  and  glow, — 

So  shape  I,  on  Destiny's  thundering  loom, 
The  Godhead's  live  garment,  eternal  in  bloom. 

FAUST. 

"  Spirit  that  sweep' st  the  world  from  end  to  end, 
How  near,  this  hour,  I  feel  myself  to  thee  ! 

SPIRIT. 

"Thou'rt  like  the  spirit  thou  canst  comprehend, 
Not  me !  [  Vanislies. 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  GOETHE.  305 

FAUST  (collapsing}. 
"  Not  thee  ? 
Whom  then  ? 
I,  image  of  the  Godhead, 
And  no  peer  for  thee  !" 

When  the  Genius  has  disappeared,  a  deep  despair  seizes  on 
Faust,  and  he  forms  the  design  of  poisoning  himself. 

"  I,  godlike,  who  in  fancy  saw  but  now 
Eternal  truth's  fair  glass  in  wondrous  nearness, 
Rejoiced  in  heavenly  radiance  and  clearness, 
Leaving  the  earthly  man  below  ; 
I,  more  than  cherub,  whose  free  force 
Dream'd,  through  the  veins  of  nature  penetrating, 
To  taste  the  life  of  gods,  like  them  creating, 
Behold  me  this  presumption  expiating  ! 
A  word  of  thunder  sweeps  me  from  my  course. 

"  Myself  with  thee  no  longer  dare  I  measure  ; 
Had  I  the  power  to  draw  thee  down  at  pleasure  ; 
To  hold  thee  here  I  still  had  not  the  force. 
Oh,  in  that  blest,  ecstatic  hour, 
I  felt  myself  so  small,  so  great ; 
Thou  drovest  me  with  cruel  power 
Back  upon  man's  uncertain  fate. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  what  shun,  thus  lonely  ? 
That  impulse  must  I,  then,  obey  ? 
Alas  !  our  very  deeds,  and  not  our  sufferings  only, 
How  do  they  hem  and  choke  life's  way  ! 

' '  To  all  the  mind  conceives  of  great  and  glorious 
A  strange  and  baser  mixture  still  adheres  ; 
Striving  for  earthly  good  are  we  victorious  ? 
A  dream  and  cheat  the  better  part  appears. 
The  feelings  that  could  once  such  noble  life  inspire 
Are  quench'd  and  trampled  out  in  passion's  mire. 

"  Where  Fantasy,  erewhile,  with  daring  flight 
Out  to  the  infinite  her  wings  expanded, 
A  little  space  can  now  suffice  her  quite, 
When  hope  on  hope  time's  gulf  has  wreck'd  and  stranded. 
Care  builds  her  nest  far  down  the  heart's  recesses, 
There  broods  o'er  dark,  untold  distresses  ; 
Restless  she  sits,  and  scares  thy  joy  and  peace  away  ; 
She  puts  on  some  new  mask  with  each  new  day, 
Herself  as  house  and  home,  as  wife  and  child  presenting, 
As  fire  and  water,  bane  and  blade  ; 


366  MADAME  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY. 

What  never  hits  makes  thee  afraid, 

And  what  is  never  lost  she  keeps  thee  still  lamenting. 

'•  Not  like  the  gods  am  I !    Too  deep  that  truth  is  thrust ! 
But  like  the  worm,  that  wriggles  through  the  dust ; 
Who,  as  along  the  dust  for  food  he  feels. 
Is  crush'd  and  buried  by  the  traveller's  heels. 

"  Is  it  not  dust  that  makes  this  lofty  wall 
Groan  with  its  hundred  shelves  and  cases  ; 
The  rubbish  and  the  thousand  trifles  all 
That  crowd  these  dark,  moth-peopled  places  ? 
Here  shall  my  craving  heart  find  rest  ? 
Must  I  perchance  a  thousand  books  turn  over, 
To  find  that  men  are  everywhere  distress' d, 
And  here  and  there  one  happy  one  discover  ? 
Why  grin'st  thou  down  upon  me,  hollow  skull  ? 
But  that  thy  brain,  like  mine,  once  trembling,  hoping, 
Sought  the  light  day,  yet  ever  sorrowful, 
Burn'd  for  the  truth  in  vain,  in  twilight  groping? 
Ye.  instruments,  of  course,  are  mocking  me  ; 
Its  wheels,  cogs,  bands,  and  barrels  each  one  praises. 
I  waited  at  the  door  ;  you  were  the  key  ; 
Your  ward  is  nicely  turn'd,  and  yet  no  bolt  it  raises. 
Unlifted  in  the  broadest  day, 
Doth  Nature's  veil  from  prying  eyes  defend  her, 
And  what  she  chooses  not  before  thee  to  display, 
Not  all  thy  screws  and  levers  can  force  her  to  surrender. 
Old  trumpery  !  not  that  I  e'er  used  thee,  but 
Because  my  father  used  thee,  hang'st  thou  o'er  me, 
Old  scroll !  thou  hast  been  stain' d  with  smoke  and  smut 
Since  on  this  desk,  the  lamp  first  dimly  gleam'd  before  me. 
Better  have  squander' d,  far,  I  now  can  clearly  see, 
My  little  all,  than  melt  beneath  it,  in  this  Tophet ! 
That  which  thy  fathers  have  bequeathed  to  thee, 
Earn  and  become  possessor  of  it ! 
What  profits  not  a  weary  load  will  be  ; 
What  it  brings  forth  alone  can  yield  the  moment  profit. 

"  Why  do  I  gaze  as  if  a  spell  had  bound  me 
Up  yonder  ?    Is  that  flask  a  magnet  to  the  eyes  ? 
What  lovely  light,  so  sudden,  blooms  around  me  ? 
As  when  in  nightly  woods  we  hail  the  full-moon-rise. 

"  I  greet  thee,  rarest  phial,  precious  potion ! 
As  now  I  take  thee  down  with  deep  devotion, 
In  thee  I  venerate  men's  wit  and  art. 
Quintessence  of  all  soporific  flowers, 
Extract  of  all  the  finest  deadly  powers, 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   GOETHE.  367 

Thy  favor  to  thy  master  now  impart ! 

I  look  on  thee,  the  sight  my  pain  appeases, 

I  handle  thee,  the  strife  of  longing  ceases, 

The  flood-tide  of  the  spirit  ebbs  away. 

Far  out  to  sea  I'm  drawn,  sweet  voices  listening, 

The  glassy  waters  at  my  feet  are  glistening, 

To  new  shores  beckons  me  a  new-born  day. 

"  A  fiery  chariot  floats,  on  airy  pinions, 
To  where  I  sit !     Willing,  it  beareth  me, 
On  a  new  path,  through  ether's  blue  dominions, 
To  untried  spheres  of  pure  activity. 
This  lofty  life,  this  bliss  elysian, 
Worm  that  thou  wast  erewhile,  deservest  thou? 
Ay,  on  this  earthly  sun,  this  charming  vision, 
Turn  thy  back  resolutely  now ! 
Boldly  draw  near  and  rend  the  gates  asunder, 
By  which  each  cowering  mortal  gladly  steals. 
Now  is  the  time  to  show  by  deeds  of  wonder 
That  manly  greatness  not  to  godlike  glory  yields ; 
Before  that  gloomy  pit  to  stand,  unfearing, 
Where  Fantasy  self-damn'd  in  its  own  torment  lies, 
Still  onward  to  that  pass- way  steering, 
Around  whose  narrow  mouth  hell-flames  forever  rise  ; 
Calmly  to  dare  the  step,  serene,  unshrinking, 
Though  into  nothingness  the  hour  should  see  thee  sinking, 

"Now,  then,  come  down  from  thy  old  case,  I  bid  thee, 
Where  thou,  forgotten,  many  a  year  hast  hid  thee, 
Into  thy  master's  hand,  pure,  crystal  glass  ! 
The  joy-feasts  of  the  fathers  thou  hast  brighten'd, 
The  hearts  of  gravest  guests  were  lighten'd, 
When,  pledged,  from  hand  to  hand  they  saw  thee  pass. 
Thy  sides,  with  many  a  curious  type  bedight, 
Which  each,  as  with  one  draught  he  quaff  d  the  liquor, 
Must  read  in  rhyme  from  off  the  wondrous  beaker, 
Remind  me,  ah  !  of  many  a  youthful  night. 
I  shall  not  hand  thee  now  to  any  neighbor, 
Not  now  to  show  my  wit  upon  thy  carvings  labor  ; 
Here  is  a  juice  of  quick-intoxicating  might. 
The  rich  brown  flood  adown  thy  sides  is  streaming, 
With  my  own  choice  ingredients  teeming  ; 
Be  this  last  draught,  as  morning  now  is  gleaming, 
Drain'd  as  a  lofty  pledge  to  greet  the  festal  light !" 

[He  puts  the  goblet  to  his  lips. 

At  the  moment  when  he  is  about  tz  swallow  the  poison,  Faust 


368  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

hears  the  town  bells  ringing  in  honor  of  Easter-day,  and  the 
choirs  of  the  neighboring  church  celebrating  that  holy  feast. 

CHORUS  OF  A.NGELS. 

"  Christ  hath  arisen  ! 
Joy  to  humanity ! 
No  more  shall  vanity, 
Death  and  inanity 
Hold  thee  in  prison  ! 

FAUST. 

"  What  hum  of  music,  what  a  radiant  tone. 
Thrills  through  me,  from  my  lips  the  goblet  stealing  ! 
Ye  murmuring  bells,  already  make  ye  known 
The  Easter  morn's  first  hour,  with  solemn  pealing  ? 
Sing  you,  ye  choirs,  e'en  now,  the  glad,  consoling  song, 
That  once,  from  angel-lips,  through  gloom  sepulchral  rung, 
A  new  immortal  covenant  sealing  ? 

CHORUS  OF  WOMEN. 

"  Spices  we  carried. 
Laid  them  upon  his  breast ; 
Tenderly  buried 
Him  whom  we  loved  the  best ; 
Cleanly  to  bind  him 
Took  we  the  fondest  care, 
Ah  !  and  we  find  him 
Now  no  more  there. 

CHORUS  OF  AKOEM. 

"  Christ  hath  ascended  ! 
Reign  in  benignity ! 
Pain  and  indignity, 
Scorn  and  malignity, 
Their  work  have  ended. 

FADST. 

"  Why  seek  ye  me  in  dust,  forlorn, 
Ye  heavenly  tones,  with  soft  enchanting  ? 
Go,  greet  pure-hearted  men  this  holy  morn  ! 
Your  message  well  I  hear,  but  faith  to  me  is  wanting  ; 
Wonder,  its  dearest  child,  of  Faith  is  born. 
To  yonder  spheres  I  dare  no  more  aspire, 
Whence  the  sweet  tidings  downward  float ; 


THE    DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  369 

And  yet,  from  childhood  heard,  the  old,  familiar  note 

Calls  back  e'en  now  to  life  my  warm  desire. 

Ah !  once  how  sweetly  fell  on  me  the  kiss 

Of  heavenly  love  in  the  still  Sabbath  stealing  ! 

Prophetically  rang  the  bells  with  solemn  pealing  ; 

A  prayer  was  then  the  ecstasy  of  bliss  ; 

A  blessed  and  mysterious  yearning 

Drew  me  to  roam  through  meadows,  woods,  and  skies  ; 

And,  midst  a  thousand  tear-drops  burning, 

I  felt  a  world  within  me  rise. 

That  strain,  oh,  how  it  speaks  youth's  gleesome  plays  and 
feelings, 

Joys  of  spring-festivals  long  past ; 

Remembrance  holds  me  now,  with  childhood's  fond  appeal- 
ings, 

Back  from  the  fatal  step,  the  last. 

Sound  on,  ye  heavenly  strains,  that  bliss  restore  me  ! 

Tears  gush,  once  more  the  spell  of  earth  is  o'er  me  !" 

This  moment  of  enthusiasm  does  not  continue  ;  Faust  is  an 
inconstant  character,  the  passions  of  the  world  recover  their 
hold  upon  him.  He  seeks  to  satisfy  them,  he  wishes  to  aban- 
don himself  to  them ;  and  the  devil,  under  the  name  of  Mephis- 
topheles,  comes  and  promises  to  put  him  in  possession  of  all 
the  pleasures  of  the  earth ;  but  at  the  same  time,  he  is  able 
to  render  him  disgusted  with  them  all,  for  real  wickedness  so 
entirely  dries  up  the  soul,  that  it  ends  by  inspiring  a  profound 
indifference  for  pleasures  as  well  as  for  virtues. 

Mephistopheles  conducts  Faust  to  a  witch,  who  keeps  under 
her  orders  a  number  of  animals,  half  monkeys  and  half  cats 
(Meerkatzen).  This  scene  may,  in  some  respects,  be  considered 
as  a  parody  of  that  of  the  witches  in  Macbeth.  The  witches  in 
Macbeth  sing  mysterious  words,  of  which  the  extraordinary 
sounds  produce  at  once  the  effect  of  magic ;  Goethe's  witches 
also  pronounce  strange  syllables,  of  which  the  rhymes  are 
curiously  multiplied ;  these  syllables  excite  the  imagination  to 
gayety,  by  the  very  singularity  of  their  construction ;  and  the 
dialogue  of  this  scene,  which  would  be  merely  burlesque  in  prose, 
receives  a  more  elevated  character  from  the  charm  of  poetry. 

In  listening  to  the  comical  language  of  these  cat-monkeys, 

we  think  we  discover  what  would  be  the  ideas  of  animals,  if 

160 


370  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

they  were  able  to  express  them,  what  a  coarse  and  ridiculous 
image  they  would  represent  to  themselves,  of  nature,  and  of 
mankind. 

The  French  stage  has  scarcely  any  specimens  of  these  pleas- 
antries founded  on  the  marvellous,  on  prodigies,  witchcrafts, 
transformations,  etc. :  this  is  to  make  sport  with  nature,  as  in 
comedies  we  make  sport  with  men.  But,  to  derive  pleasure 
from  this  sort  of  comedy,  reason  must  be  set  aside,  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  imagination  must  be  considered  as  a  licensed 
game,  without  any  object.  Yet,  is  this  game  not  the  more 
easy  on  that  account,  for  restrictions  are  often  supports ;  *nd 
when,  in  the  career  of  literature,  men  give  scope  to  boundless 
invention,  nothing  but  the  excess,  the  very  extravagance  of 
genius,  can  confer  any  merit  on  these  productions  ;  the  union 
of  wildness  with  mediocrity  would  be  intolerable. 

Mephistopheles  conducts  Faust  into  the  company  of  young 
persons  of  all  classes,  and  subdues,  by  different  means,  the 
different  minds  with  which  he  engages.  He  effects  his  con- 
quests over  them,  not  by  admiration,  but  by  astonishment.  He 
always  captivates  by  something  unexpected  and  contemptuous 
in  his  words  and  actions  ;  for  vulgar  spirits,  for  the  most  part, 
take  so  much  the  more  account  of  a  superior  intellect,  as  that 
intellect  appears  to  be  indifferent  about  them.  A  secret  in- 
stinct tells  them  that  he  who  despises  them  sees  justly. 

A  Leipsic  student,  who  has  just  left  his  mother's  house,  as 
simple  as  one  can  be  at  that  age  in  the  good  country  of  Ger- 
many, comes  to  consult  Faust  about  his  studies ;  Faust  begs 
Mephistopheles  to  take  on  himself  the  charge  of  answering 
him.  He  puts  on  a  doctor's  gown,  and,  while  waiting  for  the 
scholar,  expresses,  in  a  soliloquy,  his  contempt  for  Faust. 
"  This  man,"  says  he,  "  will  never  be  more  than  half  wicked, 
and  it  is  in  vain  that  he  flatters  himself  with  the  hope  of  be- 
coming completely  so." '  It  is  so  in  fact ;  whenever  people 

1  The  following  is  the  soliloquy : 

MEPHISTOPHELES  (in  FArsx's  long  gown). 
"  Only  despise  all  human  wit  and  lore, 
The  highest  flights  that  thought  can  soar— 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  371 

naturally  well-principled  turn  aside  from  the  plain  road,  they 
find  themselves  shackled  by  a  sort  of  awkwardness  that  pro- 
ceeds from  uncontrollable  remorse,  while  men  who  are  radi- 
cally bad  make  a  mock  of  those  candidates  for  vice  who,  with 
the  best  intention  to  do  evil,  are  without  talent  to  accom- 
plish it. 

At  last  the  scholar  presents  himself,  and  nothing  can  be 
more  naif  than  the  awkward,  and  yet  presumptuous  eagerness 
of  this  young  German,  on  his  entrance  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  into  a  great  city,  disposed  to  all  things,  knowing  nothing ; 
afraid  of  every  thing  he  sees,  yet  impatient  to  possess  it ;  desi- 
rous of  information,  eagerly  wishing  for  amusement,  and  ad- 
vancing with  an  artless  smile  towards  Mephistopheles,  who 
receives  him  with  a  cold  and  contemptuous  air :  the  contrast 
between  the  unaffected  good-humor  of  the  one,  and  the  dis- 
dainful influence  of  the  other,  is  admirably  lively. 

There  is  not  a  single  branch  of  knowledge  which  the  scholar 
desires  not  to  become  acquainted  with  ;  and  what  he  desires 
to  learn,  he  says,  is  science  and  nature.  Mephistopheles  con- 
gratulates him  on  the  precision  with  which  he  has  marked  out 
his  plan  of  study.  He  amuses  himself  by  describing  the  four 
faculties,  law,  medicine,  philosophy,  and  theology,  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  confound  the  poor  scholar's  head  forever.  Me- 
phistopheles makes  a  thousand  different  arguments  for  him, 


Let  but  the  lying  spirit  blind  thee, 

And  with  his  spells  of  witchcraft  bind  thee, 

Into  my  snare  the  victim  creeps. 

To  him  has  destiny  a  spirit  given, 

That  unrestrainedly  still  onward  sweeps, 

To  scale  the  skies  long  since  hath  striven, 

And  all  earth's  pleasures  overleaps. 

He  shall  through  life's  wild  scenes  be  driven, 

And  through  its  flat  unmeaningness, 

I'll  make  him  writhe,  and  stare,  and  stiffen, 

And  midst  all  sensual  excess, 

His  fever'd  lips,  with  thirst  all  parch'd  and  riven, 

Insatiably  shall  haunt  refreshment's  brink ; 

And  had  he  not,  himself,  his  soul  to  Satan  given, 

Still  must  he  to  perdition  sink !"—  Ed. 


372  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

all  which  the  scholai  approves  one  after  the  other,  but  the 
conclusion  of  which  astonishes  him,  because  he  looks  for  serious 
discourse,  while  the  devil  is  only  laughing  at  every  subject. 
The  scholar  comes  prepared  for  general  admiration,  and  the 
result  of  all  he  hears  is  only  universal  contempt.  Mephisto- 
pheles  agrees  with  him,  that  doubt  proceeds  from  hell,  and 
that  the  devils  are  those  who  deny  ;  but  he  expresses  doubt 
itself  with  a  tone  of  decision,  which,  mixing  arrogance  of  char- 
acter with  uncertainty  of  reasoning,  leaves  no  consistence  in 
any  thing  but  evil  inclinations.  No  belief,  no  opinion  remains 
fixed  in  the  head,  after  having  listened  to  Mephistopheles ;  and 
we  feel  disposed  to  examine  ourselves,  in  order  to  know 
whether  there  is  any  truth  in  the  world,  or  whether  we  think 
only  to  make  a  mock  of  those  who  fancy  that  they  think. 

SCHOLAE. 
"  Yet  in  the  word  a  thought  must  surely  be. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

' '  All  right !     But  one  must  not  perplex  himself  about  it ; 
For  just  where  one  must  go  without  it, 
The  word  comes  in,  a  friend  in  need,  to  thee. 
With  words  can  one  dispute  most  featly, 
With  words  build  up  a  system  neatly, 
In  words  thy  faith  may  stand  unshaken, 
From  words  there  can  be  no  iota  taken." 

Sometimes  the  scholar  cannot  comprehend  Mephistopheles, 
but  he  has  only  so  much  the  more  respect  for  his  genius.  Be- 
fore he  takes  leave  of  him,  he  begs  him  to  inscribe  a  few  lines 
in  his  Album,  the  book  in  which,  according  to  the  good-na- 
tured customs  of  Germany,  every  one  makes  his  friends  furnish 
him  with  a  mark  of  their  remembrance.  Mephistopheles  writes 
the  words  that  Satan  spoke  to  Eve,  to  induce  her  to  eat  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  life. 

SCHOLAR  (reads). 

"  Eritis  sicut  Deus,  scientes  bonum  et  malum. 

[<Sfafe  it  reverently,  and  bows  himself  out. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  373 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

"  Let  but  the  brave  old  saw  and  my  aunt,  the  serpent,  guide  thee, 
And,  with  thy  likeness  to  God,  shall  woe  one  day  betide  thee  !" 

The  scholar  takes  back  his  book,  and  goes  away  perfectly  sat- 
isfied. 

Faust  grows  tired,  and  Mephistopheles  advises  him  to  fall  in 
love.  He  becomes  actually  so  with  a  young  girl  of  the  lower 
class,  extremely  innocent  and  simple,  who  lives  in  poverty  with 
her  aged  mother.  Mephistopheles,  for  the  purpose  of  intro- 
ducing Faust  to  her,  takes  it  into  his  head  to  form  an  acquaint- 
ance with  one  of  her  neighbors,  named  Martha,  whom  the 
young  Margaret  sometimes  goes  to  visit.  This  woman's  hus- 
band is  abroad,  and  she  is  distracted  at  receiving  no  news  of 
him ;  she  would  be  greatly  afflicted  at  his  death,  yet  at  least 
she  would  wish  not  to  be  left  in  doubt  of  it ;  and  Mephistopheles' 
greatly  softens  her  grief,  by  promising  her  an  obituary  account 
of  her  husband,  in  regular  form,  for  her  to  publish  in  the  ga- 
zette according  to  custom. 

Poor  Margaret  is  delivered  up  to  the  power  of  evil ;  the  in- 
fernal spirit  lets  lo'ose  all  his  malice  upon  her,  and  renders  her 
culpable,  without  depriving  her  of  that  rectitude  of  heart  which 
can  find  repose  only  in  virtue.  A  dexterous  villain  takes  care 
not  wholly  to  pervert  those  honest  people  whom  he  designs  to 
govern ;  for  his  ascendency  over  them  depends  upon  the  alter- 
nate agitations  of  crime  and  remorse.  Faust,  by  the  assistance 
of  Mephistopheles,  seduces  this  young  girl,  who  is  remarkably 
simple  both  in  mind  and  soul.  She  is  pious  though  culpable ; 
and  when  alone  with  Faust,  asks  him  whether  he  has  any  re 
ligion. 

FAOST. 
"  Leave  that,  my  child !     Enough,  thou  hast  my  heart ; 

For  those  I  love  with  life  I'd  freely  part ; 

I  would  not  harm  a  soul,  nor  of  its  faith  bereave  it. 

MARGARET. 
"That's  wrong,  there's  one  true  faith — one  must  believe  it ! 

FAUST. 
"  Must  one  ? 


374  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

MARGARET. 

"  Ah,  could  I  influence  thee,  dearest! 
The  holy  sacraments  thou  scarce  reverest. 

FAUST. 
"  I  honor  them . 

MARGARET. 

"  But  yet  without  desire. 

Of  mass  and  confession  both  thou'st  long  begun  to  tire. 
Believest  thou  in  God  ? 

FAUST. 

"  My  darling,  who  engages 
To  say,  I  do  believe  in  God  ? 
The  question  put  to  priests  or  sages  : 
Their  answer  seems  as  if  it  sought 
To  mock  the  asker. 

MARGARET. 
"  Then  belie v'st  thou  not  ? 

FAUST. 

"  Sweet  face,  do  not  misunderstand  my  thought ! 
Who  dares  express  him  1 
And  who  confess  him, 
Saying,  I  do  believe  ? 
A  man's  heart  bearing, 
What  man  has  the  daring 
To  say:  I  acknowledge  him  not? 
The  All-enfolder, 
The  All-upholder, 
Enfolds,  upholds  He  not 
Thee,  me,  Himself? 

Upsprings  not  heaven's  blue  arch  high  o'er  thee? 
Underneath  thee  does  not  earth  stand  fast  ? 
See'st  thou  not,  nightly  climbing, 
Tenderly  glancing  eternal  stars  ? 
Am  I  not  gazing  eye  to  eye  on  thee  ? 
Through  brain  and  bosom 
Throngs  not  all  life  to  thee, 
Weaving  in  everlasting  mystery 
Obscurely,  clearly,  on  all  sides  of  thee  ? 
Fill  with  it,  to  its  utmost  stretch,  thy  breast, 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   GOETHE.  375 

And  in  the  consciousness  when  thou  art  wholly  blest, 

Then  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 

Joy  !  Heart !  Love  !  God  ! 

I  have  no  name  to  give  it ! 

All  comes  at  last  to  feeling  ; 

Name  is  but  sound  and  smoke, 

Beclouding  Heaven's  warm  glow." 

This  morsel  of  inspired  eloquence  would  not  suit  the  char- 
acter of  Faust,  if  at  this  moment  he  were  not  better,  because 
he  loves,  and  if  the  intention  of  the  author  had  not,  doubtless, 
been  to  show  the  necessity  of  a  firm  and  positive  belief,  since 
even  those  whom  Nature  has  created  good  and  kind,  are  not 
the  less  capable  of  the  most  fatal  aberrations  when  this  support 
is  wanting  to  them. 

Faust  grows  tired  of  the  love  of  Margaret,  as  of  all  the  en- 
joyments of  life ;  nothing  is  finer,  in  the  original,  than  the 
verses  in  which  he  expresses  at  once  the  enthusiasm  of  science, 
and  the  satiety  of  happiness. 

FAUST  (alone). 

"Spirit  subjime,  thou  gav'st  me,  gav'st  me  all 
For  which  I  pray'd.    Thou  didst  not  lift  in  vain 
Thy  face  upon  me  in  a  flame  of  fire. 
Gav'st  me  majestic  nature  for  a  realm, 
The  power  to  feel,  enjoy  her.     Not  alone 
A  freezing,  formal  visit  didst  thou  grant ; 
Deep  down  into  her  breast  invitedst  me 
To  look,  as  if  she  were  a  bosom  friend. 
The  series  of  animated  things 
Thou  bidst  pass  by  me,  teaching  me  to  know 
My  brothers  in  the  waters,  woods,  and  air. 
And  when  the  storm-swept  forest  creaks  and  groans, 
The  giant  pine-tree  crashes,  rending  off 
The  neighboring  boughs  and  limbs,  and  with  deep  roar 
The  thundering  mountain  echoes  to  its  fall, 
To  a  safe  cavern  then  thou  leadest  me, 
Show'st  me  myself ;  and  my  own  bosom's  deep 
Mysterious  wonders  open  on  my  view. 
And  when  before  my  sight  the  moon  comes  up 
With  soft  effulgence  ;  from  the  walls  of  rock, 
From  the  damp  thicket,  slowly  float  around 


376  MADAME    BE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

The  silvery  shadows  of  a  world  gone  by, 
And  temper  meditation's  sterner  joy. 

"  Oh  !  nothing  perfect  is  vouchsafed  to  man  : 
I  feel  it  now  !     Attendant  on  this  bliss, 
Which  brings  me  ever  nearer  to  the  gods, 
Thou  gav'st  me  the  companion,  whom  I  now 
No  more  can  spare,  though  cold  and  insolent ; 
He  makes  me  hate,  despise  myself,  and  turns 
Thy  gifts  to  nothing  with  a  word — a  breath. 
He  kindles  up  a  wild-fire  in  my  breast, 
Of  restless  longing  for  that  lovely  form. 
Thus  from  desire  I  hurry  to  enjoyment, 
And  in  enjoyment  languish  for  desire." 

The  history  of  Margaret  is  oppressively  painful  to  the  heart. 
Her  low  condition,  her  confined  intellect,  all  that  renders  her 
subject  to  misfortune,  without  giving  her  the  power  of  resisting 
it,  inspires  us  with  the  greater  compassion  for  her.  Goethe, 
in  his  novels  and  in  his  plays,  has  scarcely  ever  bestowed  any 
superior  excellence  upon  his  female  personages,  but  he  describes 
•with  wonderful  exactness  that  character  of  weakness  which 
renders  protection  so  necessary  to  them.  Margaret  is  about  to 
receive  Faust  in  her  house  without  her  mother's  knowledge, 
and  gives  this  poor  woman,  by  the  advice  of  Mephistopheles,  a 
sleeping  draught,  which  she  is  unable  to  support,  and  which 
causes  her  death.  The  guilty  Margaret  becomes  pregnant,  her 
shame  is  made  public,  all  her  neighbors  point  the  finger  at 
her.  Disgrace  seems  to  have  greater  hold  upon  persons  of  an 
elevated  rank,  and  yet  it  is,  perhaps,  more  formidable  among 
the  lower  class.  Every  thing  is  so  plain,  so  positive,  so  irrepara- 
ble, among  men  who  never,  upon  any  occasion,  make  use  of 
shades  of  expression.  Goethe  admirably  catches  those  man- 
ners, at  once  so  near  and  so  distant  from  us ;  he  possesses,  in 
a  supreme  degree,  the  art  of  being  perfectly  natural  in  a  thou- 
sand different  natures. 

Valentine,  a  soldier,  the  brother  of  Margaret,  returns  from 
the  wars  to  visit  her ;  and  when  he  learns  her  shame,  the 
suffering  which  he  feels,  and  for  which  he  blushes,  betrays 
itself  in  language  at  once  harsh  and  pathetic.  A  man  severe 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  GOETHE.  377 

in  appearance,  yet  inwardly  endowed  with  sensibility,  causes 
an  unexpected  and  poignant  emotion.  Goethe  has  painted 
with  admirable  truth  the  courage  which  a  soldier  is  capable  of 
exerting  against  moral  pain,  that  new  enemy  which  he  per- 
ceives within  himself,  and  which  he  cannot  combat  with  his 
usual  weapons.  At  last,  the  necessity  of  revenge  takes  posses- 
sion of  him,  and  brings  into  action  all  the  feelings  by  which  he 
was  inwardly  devoured.  He  meets  Mephistopheles  and  Faust 
at  the  moment  when  they  are  going  to  give  a  serenade  under 
his  sister's  window.  Valentine  provokes  Faust,  fights  with  him, 
and  receives  a  mortal  wound.  His  adversaries  fly,  to  avoid  the 
fury  of  the  populace. 

Margaret  arrives,  and  asks  who  lies  bleeding  upon  the  earth. 
The  people  answer  :  The  son  of  thy  mother.  And  her  brother, 
dying,  addresses  to  her  reproaches  more  terrible,  and  more 
harrowing,  than  more  polished  language  could  ever  express. 
The  dignity  of  tragedy  could  never  permit  us  to  dig  so  deeply 
into  the  human  heart  for  the  traits  of  nature. 

Mephistopheles  obliges  Faust  to  leave  the  town,  and  the 
despair  excited  in  him  by  the  fate  of  Margaret,  creates  a  new 
interest  in  his  favor. 

FAUST. 

"  What  are  the  joys  of  heaven  while  her  fond  arms  enfold  me? 
Oh  let  her  kindling  bosom  hold  me  ! 
Feel  I  not  always  her  distress  ? 
The  houseless  am  I  not  ?  the  unbefriended  ? 
The  monster  without  aim  or  rest  ? 
That,  like  a  cataract,  from  rock  to  rock  descended 
To  the  abyss,  with  maddening  greed  possess' d  : 
She.  on  its  brink,  with  childlike  thoughts  and  lowly, — 
Perch' d  on  the  little  Alpine  field  her  cot, — 
This  narrow  world,  so  still  and  holy, 
Ensphering,  like  a  heaven,  her  lot. 
And  I,  God's  hatred  daring, 
Could  not  be  content 
The  rocks  all  headlong  bearing, 
By  me  to  ruins  rent, — 

Her,  yea,  her  peace,  must  I  o'erwhelm  and  bury  ! 
This  victim,  hell,  to  thee  was  necessary  ! 


378  MADAME   UE    STAEL's    GERMANY, 

Help  me,  thou  fiend,  the  pang  soon  ending  ! 
What  must  be,  let  it  quickly  be  ! 
And  let  her  fate  upon  my  head  descending, 
Crush,  at  one  blow,  both  her  and  me." 

The  bitterness  and  sang-froid  of  the  answer  of  Mephisto- 
pheles  are  truly  diabolical : 

M  KPHISTOPH  ELES. 

"  Ha  !  how  it  seethes  again  and  glows  ! 
Go  in  and  comfort  her,  thou  dunce  ! 
Where  such  a  dolt  no  outlet  sees  or  knows, 
He  thinks  he's  reach' d  the  end  at  once. 
None  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair  ! 
Thou  hast  had  devil  enough  to  make  a  decent  show  of. 
For  all  the  world,  a  devil  in  despair 
Is  just  the  insipidest  thing  I  know  of." 

Margaret  goes  alone  to  the  church,  the  only  asylum  that 
remains  to  her;  an  immense  crowd  fills  the  aisles,  and  the 
burial-service  is  being  performed  in  this  solemn  place.  Mar- 
garet is  covered  with  a  veil ;  she  prays  fervently,  and  when 
ahe  begins  to  flatter  herself  with  hopes  of  divine  mercy,  the 
evil  spirit  speaks  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  saying : 

EVIL  SPIRIT. 

"  How  different  was  it  with  thee,  Margy, 
When,  innocent  and  artless, 
Thou  cam'st  here  to  the  altar, 
From  the  well-thumb' d  little  prayer-book, 
Petitions  lisping, 
Half  full  of  child's  play, 
Half  full  of  Heaven  ! 
Margy ! 

Where  are  thy  thoughts  ? 
What  crime  is  buried 
Deep  within  thy  heart? 
Prayest  thou  haply  for  thy  mother,  who 
Slept  over  into  long,  long  pain,  on  thy  account  ? 
Whose  blood  upon  thy  threshold  lies  ? 
— And  stirs  there  not  already 
Beneath  thy  heart  a  life, 
Tormenting  itself  and  thee 
With  bodings  of  its  coming  hour  ? 


THE   DKAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  379 

MARGERY. 

"Woe!  woe! 

Could  I  rid  me  of  the  thoughts, 

Still  through  my  brain  backward  and  forward  flitting, 
Against  my  will ! 

CHORDS. 

"  Dies  irse,  dies  ilia 

Sol  vet  sseclum  in  fa  villa.1 

[Organ  plays. 

EVIL  SPIRIT. 

"  Wrath  smites  thee  ! 
Hark  !  the  trumpet  sounds  ! 
The  graves  are  trembling  ! 
And  thy  heart, 
Made  o'er  again 
For  fiery  torments, 
Waking  from  its  ashes, 
Starts  up ! 

MARGERY. 

"  Would  I  were  hence ! 
I  feel  as  if  the  organ's  peal 
My  breath  were  stifling, 
The  choral  chant 
My  heart  were  melting. 

CHORUS. 

"  Judex  ergo  cum  sedebit, 
Quidquid  latet  apparebit ; 
Nil  inultum  remanebit.* 

MARGERY. 

"How  cramp' d  it  feels  ! 
The  walls  and  pillars 
Imprison  me  ! 
And  the  arches 
.Crush  me  ! — Air  ! 


1  The  day  of  wrath  will  come,  and  the  universe  will  be  reduced  to  ashes. 
1  When  the  Supreme  Judge  appears,  he  will  discover  all  that  is  hidden, 
and  nothing  shall  remain  unpunished. 


380  MADAME   DE  8TAEI/8  GERMANY. 

EVIL  SPIRIT. 

"  What !  hide  thee  !  sin  and  shame 
Will  not  be  hidden  ! 
Air  ?     Light  ? 
Woe's  thee ! 

CHORUS. 

"  Quid  sum  miser  tune  dicturus  ? 
Quern  patronum  rogaturus  ? 
Cum  vix  Justus  sit  securus.1 

EVIL  SPIRIT. 

"  They  turn  their  faces, 
The  glorified,  from  thee. 
To  take  thy  hand,  the  pure  ones 
Shudder  with  horror. 
Woe! 

CHORUS. 

"  Quid  sum  miser  tune  dicturus  ? 


MARGERY. 
"  Neighbor  !  your  phial !" 


[She  swoons. 


What  a  scene !  This  unfortunate  creature,  who,  in  the  asy- 
lum of  consolation,  finds  despair;  this  assembled  multitude 
praying  to  God  with  confidence,  while  the  unhappy  woman,  in 
the  very  temple  of  the  Lord,  meets  the  spirit  of  hell !  The 
severe  expressions  of  the  sacred  hymn  are  interpreted  by  the 
inflexible  malice  of  the  evil  genius.  What  distraction  in  the 
heart !  what  ills  accumulated  on  one  poor  feeble  head !  And 
what  a  talent  his,  who  knew  how  to  represent  to  the  imagina- 
tion those  moments  in  which  life  is  lighted  up  within  us  like  a 
funeral  fire,  and  throws  over  our  fleeting  days  the  terrible  re- 
flection of  an  eternity  of  torments  ! 

Mephistopheles  conceives  the  idea  of  transporting  Faust  to 
the  Sabbath  of  Witches,  in  order  to  dissipate  his  melancholy ; 
and  this  leads  us  to  a  scene  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  give 

1  Miserable  wretch !  what  then  shall  I  say  ? — to  what  protector  shall  I 
address  myself,  when  even  the  just  can  scarcely  believe  themselves  saved  ? 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  ^M 

the  idea,  though  it  contains  many  thoughts,  which  we  shall 
endeavor  to  recollect  :  this  festival  of  the  Sabbath  represents 
truly  the  saturnalia  of  genius.  The  progress  of  the  piece  is 
suspended  by  its  introduction,  and  the  stronger  the  situation, 
the  greater  we  find  the  difficulty  of  submitting  even  to  the 
indentions  of  genius  when  they  so  effectually  disturb  the  inter- 
est. Amid  the  whirlwind  of  all  that  can  be  thought  or  said, 
when  images  and  ideas  rush  headlong,  confound  themselves, 
and  seem  to  fall  back  into  the  abysses  from  which  reason  has 
called  them,  there  comes  a  scene  which  reunites  us  to  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  performance  in  a  terrible  manner.  The  con- 
jurations of  magic  cause  several  different  pictures  to  appear,  and 
all  at  once  Faust  approaches  Mephistopheles,  and  says  to  him  : 

"  Mephisto,  seest  thou  not 

Yon  pale,  fair  child  afar,  who  stands  so  sad  and  lonely, 
And  moves  so  slowly  from  the  spot, 
Her  feet  seem  lock'd,  and  she  drags  them  only. 
I  must  confess,  she  seems  to  me 
To  look  like  my  own  good  Margery. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

"  Leave  that  alone  !     The  sight  no  health  can  bring, 
It  is  a  magic  shape,  an  idol,  no  live  thing. 
To  meet  it  never  can  be  good  ! 
Its  haggard  look  congeals  a  mortal's  blood, 
And  almost  turns  him  into  stone  ; 
The  story  of  Medusa  thou  hast  known. 

FAUST. 

"  Yes,  'tis  a  dead  one's  eyes  that  stare  upon  me, 
Eyes  that  no  loving  hand  e'er  closed  ; 
That  is  the  angel  form  of  her  who  won  me, 
'Tis  the  dear  breast  on  which  I  once  reposed. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

;'  'Tis  sorcery  all,  thou  fool,  misled  by  passion's  dreams  1 
For  she  to  every  one  his  own  love  seems. 

FAOST. 

"  What  bliss  !  what  woe  !     Metbinks  I  never 
My  sight  from  that  sweet  form  can  sever. 


382  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

Seest  thou.  not  thicker  than  a  knife-blade's  back. 
A  small  red  ribbon,  fitting  sweetly 
The  lovely  neck  it  clasps  so  neatly  ? 

MEPHISTOPHKLKS. 

"I  see  the  streak  around  her  neck. 
Her  head  beneath  her  arm.  you'll  next  behold  her  ; 
Perseus  has  lopp'd  it  front  her  shoulder. 
But  let  thy  crazy  passion  rest ! 
Come  !" 

Faust  learns  that  Margaret  has  murdered  the  child  to  which 
she  had  given  birth,  hoping  thus  to  avoid  shame.  Her  crime 
has  been  discovered ;  she  has  been  thrown  into  prison,  and  is 
doomed  to  perish  the  next  morning  on  the  scaffold.  Faust 
curses  Mephistopheles  in  the  bitterness  of  rage  ;  Mephistophe- 
les  reproaches  Faust  in  cold  blood,  and  proves  to  him  that  it  is 
himself  who  has  desired  evil,  and  that  he  has  assisted  him  only 
because  called  upon  by  himself  to  do  so.  Sentence  of  death  is 
pronounced  against  Faust  for  having  slain  Margaret's  brother. 
He  nevertheless  enters  the  city  in  secret,  obtains  from  Mephis- 
topheles the  means  of  delivering  Margaret,  and  penetrates  at 
night  into  her  dungeon,  of  which  he  has  stolen  the  keys. 

He  hears  from  afar  off  the  imperfect  notes  of  a  song,  which 
sufficiently  proves  the  derangement  of  her  mind ;  the  words 
of  this  song  are  very  coarse,  and  Margaret  was  naturally  pure 
and  delicate.  Mad  women  are  generally  painted  as  if  madness 
accommodated  itself  to  the  rules  of  propriety,  and  only  gave 
the  right  of  breaking  off  sentences  abruptly,  and  interrupting, 
at  convenient  times,  the  chain  of  ideas ;  but  it  is  not  so  :  real 
disorder  of  the  mind  almost  always  displays  itself  in  shapes 
foreign  even  to  the  cause  of  the  disorder,  and  the  gayety  of  its 
unhappy  victims  is  more  harrowing  to  the  soul  than  even  their 
misery. 

Faust  enters  the  prison  :  Margaret  believes  that  they  are 
come  to  lead  her  to  death. 

MARGARET  (burying  herself  in  the  bed). 
"  Woe  !  woe  !    They  come  !    0  death  of  bitterness ! 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   GOETHE.  383 

FAUST  (softly). 
"  Hush  !  hush  !     I  come  to  free  thee  ;  thou  art  dreaming. 

MARGARET  (prostrating  herself  before  him). 
"  Art  thou  a  man,  then  feel  for  my  distress. 
FAUST. 

"  Thou' It  wake  the  guards  with  thy  loud  screaming  ! 

[He  seizes  the  chains  to  unlock  them. 

MARGARET  (on  her  knees). 

"  Headsman,  who's  given  thee  this  right 
O'er  me,  this  power  ? 
Thou  com'st  for  me  at  dead  of  night ; 
In  pity  spare  me,  one  short  hour  ! 
Wilt 't  not  be  time  when  Matin-bell  has  rung  ? 

[She  stands  up. 

Ah  !  I  am  yet  so  young,  so  young ! 
And  death  pursuing ! 
Fair  was  I  too,  and  that  was  my  undoing. 
My  love  was  near  ;  far  is  he  now  I 
Tom  is  the  wreath,  the  scatter'd  flowers  lie  low. 
Pake  not  such  violent  hold  of  me ! 
Spare  me  !  what  harm  have  I  done  to  thee  ? 
Let  me  not  in  vain  implore  thee. 
Thou  ne'er  till  now  saw'st  her  who  lies  before  thee  ! 

FAUST. 
"Oh,  sorrow  worse  than  death  is  o'er  me! 

MARGARET. 

' '  Now  I  am  wholly  in  thy  power. 
But  first  I'd  nurse  my  child — do  not  prevent  me. 
I  hugg'd  it  through  the  black  night  hour  ; 
They  took  it  from  me  to  torment  me, 
And  now  they  say  I  kill'd  the  pretty  flower. 
I  shall  never  be  happy  again,  I  know. 
They  sing  vile  songs  at  me  !     'Tis  bad  in  them  to  do  it ! 
There's  an  old  tale  that  ends  just  so— 
Who  gave  that  meaning  to  it  ? 

FAUST  (prostrates  himself). 

"  A  lover  at  thy  feet  is  bending, 
Thy  bonds  of  misery  would  be  rending. 


38i  MADAME    DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

MARGARET  (flings  herself  beside  him). 

"  Oh  let  us  kneel,  the  saints  for  aid  invoking ! 
See  !  'neath  the  threshold  smoking, 
Fire-breathing, 
Hell  is  seething ! 
There  prowling, 
And  grim  under  cover, 
Satan  is  howling ! 

FAUST  (aloud). 
11  Margery  !  Margery  ! 

MARGARET  (listening). 

"  That  was  the  voice  of  my  lover  ! 

[She  springs  up.     The  chains  fall  off. 
Where  is  he  ?    Where  ?    He  calls  !     I  hear  him. 
I'm  free  !     Who  hinders  ?    I  will  be  near  him. 
I' 11  fly  to  his  neck!     I' 11  hold  him! 
To  my  bosom  I'  11  enfold  him  ! 

He  stood  on  the  threshold— call' d  Margery  plainly  ! 
Hell's  howling  and  clattering  to  drown  it  sought  vainly, — 
Through  the  devilish,  grim  scoffs,  that  might  turn  one  to 

stone, 
I  caught  the  sweet,  loving,  enrapturing  tone. 

FAUST. 
"Tis  I! 

MARGARET. 

"  'Tis  thou  !     Oh  say  it  once  again  ! 

[Clasping  again. 

"Us  he  !  'tis  he  !     Where  now  is  all  my  pain  ? 
And  where  the  dungeon's  anguish  ?    Joy -giver  ! 
"Tis  thou  !     And  come  to  deliver ! 
I  am  deliver'd ! 

Again  before  me  lies  the  street, 
Where,  for  the  first  time,  thou  and  I  did  meet. 
And  the  garden-bower, 
Where  we  spent  that  evening  hour. 

FAUST  (trying  to  draw  her  away) 
u  Come  !    Come  with  me  ! 


THE   DRAMAS    OF    GOETHE.  385 

MARGARET. 

li  0  tarry  ! 
I  tarry  so  gladly  where  thou  tarriest. 

[Caressing  him. 

FAUST. 
"  Hurry ! 

Unless  thou  hurriest, 
Bitterly  we  both  must  rue  it. 

MARGARET. 

"  Kiss  me  !     Canst  no  more  do  it  ? 
So  short  an  absence,  love,  as  this, 
And  forgot  how  to  kiss  ? 

What  saddens  me  so  as  I  hang  about  thy  neck  ? 
When  once,  in  thy  words,  thy  looks,  such  a  heaven  of  blisses 
Came  o'er  me,  I  thought  my  heart  would  break, 
And  it  seem'd  as  if  thou  wouldst  smother  me  with  kisses. 
Kiss  thou  me ! 
Else  I  kiss  thee  ! 

[She  embraces  him. 
Woe  !  woe !  thy  lips  are  cold, 
Stone-dumb. 
Where's  thy  love  left  ? 
Oh !  I'm  bereft ! 
Who  robb'd  me  ? 

[She  turns  from  him. 

FAUST. 

"  0  come ! 

Take  courage,  my  darling  !     Let  us  go  ; 
I  clasp  thee  with  unutterable  glow  ; 
But  follow  me  !     For  this  alone  I  plead  ! 

MARGARET  (turning  to  him). 
"  Is  it,  then,  thou  ?    And  is  it  thou  indeed  ? 

FACST. 
"  "Hs  I !    Come,  follow  me  ! 

MARGARET. 

"Thou  break'st  my  chain, 
And  tak'st  me  to  thy  breast  again  ! 
How  comes  it,  then,  that  thou  art  not  afraid  of  me? 
And  dost  thou  know,  my  friend,  who  'tis  thou  settest  free? 
VOL.  I.— 17 


386  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GEKMAXT. 

FAUST. 
"  Come  !  come  !     The  night  is  on  the  wane. 

MARGARET. 

"  Woe  !  woe  !     My  mother  I've  slain  .' 
Have  drown'd  the  babe  of  mine ! 
Was  it  not  sent  to  be  mine  and  thine  ? 
Thine,  too — 'tis  thou  !     Scarce  true  doth  it  seem. 
Give  me  thy  hand  !     'Tis  not  a  dream  ! 
Thy  blessed  hand  ! — But  ah  !  there's  dampness  here  ! 
Go.  wipe  it  off!     I  fear 
There's  blood  thereon. 
Ah  God  !  what  hast  thou  done  ! 
Put  up  thy  sword  again  ; 
I  pray  thee,  do  ! 

FAUST. 

"  The  past  is  past :  there  leave  it,  then, 
Thou  kill'st  me  too  ! 

MARGARET. 

"  No,  thou  must  longer  tarry  ! 
I'll  tell  thee  how  each  thou  shalt  bury  : 
The  places  of  sorrow 
Make  ready  to-morrow  ; 
Must  give  the  best  place  to  my  mother, 
The  very  next  to  my  brother. 
Me  a  little  aside, 

But  make  not  the  space  too  wide ! 
And  on  my  right  breast  let  the  little  one  lie. 
No  one  else  will  be  sleeping  by  me. 
Once,  to  feel  thy  heart  beat  nigh  me, 
Oh,  'twas  a  precious,  a  tender  joy ! 
But  I  shall  have  it  no  more — no,  never ; 
I  seem  to  be  forcing  myself  on  thee  ever, 
And  thou  repelling  me  freezingly  ; 
And  'tis  thou,  the  same  good  soul,  I  see. 

FAUST. 
"If  thou  feelest  'tis  I,  then  come  with  me  ! 

MARGARET 
"  Out  yonder  ? 

FADOT. 
"  luto  the  open  air. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   GOETHE.  387 

MARGARET. 

"  If  the  grave  is  there, 
If  death  is  lurking  ;  then  come  ! 
From  here  to  the  endless  resting-place, 
And  not  another  pace — 
Thou  goest  e'en  now  ?     0  Henry,  might  I,  too  ! 

FAUST. 

"  Thou  canst !     'Tis  but  to  will !     The  door  stands  open. 
MARGARET. 

"  I  dare  not  go  ;  for  me  there's  no  more  hoping. 
What  use  to  fly  ?    They  lie  in  wait  for  me. 
So  wretched  the  lot  to  go  round  begging, 
With  an  evil  conscience  thy  spirit  plaguing ! 
So  wretched  the  lot,  an  exile  roaming — 
And  then  on  my  heels  they  are  ever  coming  i 

FAUST. 
"  I  shall  be  with  thee. 

MARGARET. 

"  Make  haste  !  make  haste  ! 
No  time  to  waste  ! 
Save  thy  poor  child  ! 
Quick  !  follow  the  edge 
Of  the  rushing  rill, 
Over  the  bridge, 
And  by  the  mill, 
Then  into  the  woods  beyond, 
On  the  left  where  lies  the  plank 
Over  the  pond. 
Seize  hold  of  it  quick ! 
To  rise  'tis  trying  ; 
It  struggles  still ! 
Rescue !  rescue  ! 

FAUST. 

"  Bethink  thyself,  pray  ! 
A  single  step,  and  thou  art  free  ! 

MARGARET. 

"  Would  we  were  by  the  mountain  !     See  I 
There  sits  my  mother  on  a  stone, 
The  sight  on  my  brain  is  preying  ! 


888  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

There  sits  my  mother  on  a  stone. 

And  her  head  is  constantly  swaying  ; 

She  beckons  not,  nods  not.  her  head  falls  o'er, 

So  long  she's  been  sleeping,  she'll  wake  no  more. 

She  slept  that  we  might  take  pleasure. 

Oh,  that  was  bliss  without  measure  ! 

FAUST. 

"  Since  neither  reason  nor  prayer  thou  hearest, 
I  must  venture  by  force  to  take  thee,  dearest. 

MARGARET. 

"  Let  go !     No  violence  will  I  bear  ! 
Take  not  such  a  murderous  hold  of  me  ! 
I  once  did  all  I  could  to  gratify  thee. 

FAUST. 
"  The  day  is  breaking  !     Dearest !  dearest ! 

MARGARET. 

"  Day !     Ay,  it  is  day  !  the  last  great  day  breaks  in.  1 
My  wedding-day  it  should  have  been  ! 
Tell  no  one  thou  hast  been  with  Margery ! 
Alas  for  my  garland !     The  hour's  advancing  ! 
Retreat  is  in  vain  ! 
We  meet  again, 
But  not  at  the  dancing. 
The  multitude  presses,  no  word  is  spoke. 
Square,  streets,  all  places — 
A  sea  of  faces — 

The  bell  is  tolling,  the  staff  is  broke, 
How  they  seize  me  and  bind  me  ! 
They  hurry  me  off  to  the  bloody  block. 
The  blade  that  quivers  behind  me, 
Quivers  at  every  neck  with  convulsive  shock ; 
Dumb  lies  the  world  as  the  grave  ! 

FAUST. 
"  Oh,  had  I  ne'er  been  born ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES  (appears  without). 
"  Up  !  or  thou'rt  lost !     The  morn 
Flushes  the  sky. 

Idle  delaying  !     Praying  and  playing ! 
My  horses  are  neighing  ; 
They  shudder  and  snort  for  the  bound. 


THE   DRAMAS    OF   GOETHE.  389 

MARGARET. 

"  What's  that  comes  up  from  the  ground  ? 
He  !  He  !     Avaunt !  that  face  ! 
What  will  he  in  the  sacred  place  ? 
He  seeks  me ! 

FAUST. 
"Thou  shalt  live! 

MARGARET. 

"  Great  God  in  heaven  ! 
Unto  thy  judgment  my  soul  have  I  given  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES  (to  FAUST). 
"  Come  !  come !  or  in  the  lurch  I  leave  both  her  and  thee! 

MARGARET. 

"  Thine  am  I,  Father  !     Eescue  me  ! 
Ye  angels,  holy  bands,  attend  me ! 
And  camp  around  me  to  defend  me ! 
Henry !  I  dread  to  look  on  thee. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 
"  She's  judged! 

VOICE  (from  above). 
"  She's  saved ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES  (to  FAUST). 
"  Come  thou  to  me  !  [  Vanishes  with  FAUST. 

VOICE  (from  urithin,  dying  away). 
"  Henry  !  Henry  !" 

After  these  words  the  piece  is  broken  off.  The  intention  of 
the  author  doubtless  is  that  Margaret  should  perish,  and  that 
God  should  pardon  her ;  that  the  life  of  Faust  should  be  pre- 
served, but  that  his  soul  should  be  lost. 

The  imagination  must  supply  the  charm  which  a  most  ex- 
quisite poetry  adds  to  the  scenes  I  have  attempted  to  translate ; 
in  the  art  of  versification  there  is  a  peculiar  merit  acknowl- 
edged by  all  the  world,  and  yet  independent  of  the  subject  to 
which  it  is  applied.  In  the  play  of  Faust,  the  rhythm  changes 
with  the  situation,  and  the  brilliant  variety  that  results  from 
the  change  is  admirable.  The  German  language  presents  i\ 


390  '    MADAME  DE  STAEL'S  GERMANY, 

greater  number  of  combinations  than  ours,  and  Goethe  seems 
to  have  employed  them  all  to  express  by  sounds  as  well  as 
images,  the  singular  elevation  of  irony  and  enthusiasm,  of  sad- 
ness and  mirth,  which  impelled  him  to  the  composition  of  this 
work.  It  would  indeed  be  too  childish  to  suppose  that  such  a 
man  was  not  perfectly  aware  of  all  the  defects  of  taste  with 
which  his  piece  was  liable  to  be  reproached ;  but  it  is  curious 
to  know  the  motives  that  determined  him  to  leave  those  de- 
fects, or  rather  intentionally  to  insert  them. 

Goethe  has  submitted  himself  to  rules  of  no  description 
whatever  in  this  composition ;  it  is  neither  tragedy  nor  ro- 
mance. Its  author  abjured  every  sober  method  of  thinking 
and  writing ;  one  might  find  in  it  some  analogies  with  Aris- 
tophanes, if  the  traits  of  Shakspeare's  pathos  were  not  mingled 
with  beauties  of  a  very  different  nature.  Faust  astonishes, 
moves,  and  melts  us ;  but  it  does  not  leave  a  tender  impres- 
sion on  the  soul.  Though  presumption  and  vice  are  cruelly 
punished,  the  hand  of  beneficence  is  not  perceived  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  punishment ;  it  would  rather  be  said  that 
the  evil  principle  directed  the  thunderbolt  of  vengeance  against 
crimes  of  which  it  had  itself  occasioned  the  commission ;  and 
remorse,  such  as  it  is  painted  in  this  drama,  seems  to  proceed 
from  hell,  in  company  with  guilt. 

The  belief  in  evil  spirits  is  to  be  met  with  in  many  pieces  of 
German  poetry  ;  the  nature  of  the  North  agrees  very  well  with 
this  description  of  terror ;  it  is  therefore  much  less  ridiculous 
in  Germany,  than  it  would  be  in  France,  to  make  use  of  the 
devil  in  works  of  fiction.  To  consider  all  these  ideas  only  in 
a  literary  point  of  view,  it  is  certain  that  our  imagination 
figures  to  itself  something  that  answers  to  the  conception  of  an 
evil  genius,  whether  in  the  human  heart,  or  in  the  dispensa 
tions  of  nature :  man  sometimes  does  evil,  as  we  may  say,  in  a 
disinterested  manner,  without  end,  and  even  against  his  end, 
merely  to  satisfy  a  certain  inward  asperity  that  urges  him  to 
do  hurt  to  others.  The  deities  of  paganism  were  accompanied 
by  a  different  sort  of  divinities  of  the  race  of  the  Titans,  who 
represented  the  revolted  forces  of  nature;  and,  in  Christianity, 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WEKNEK.  391 

the  evil  inclinations  of  the  soul  may  be  said  to  be  personified 
under  the  figure  of  devils. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  Faust  without  being  excited  to 
reflection  in  a  thousand  different  manners:  AVC  quarrel  with 
the  author,  we  condemn  him ;  we  justify  him  ;  but  he  obliges 
us  to  think  upon  every  thing,  and,  to  borrow  the  language  of 
a  simple  sage  of  former  times,  upon  something  more,  than  every 
thing  (de  omnibus  rebus  et  quibusdam  aliis).  The  criticisms 
to  which  such  a  production  is  obnoxious  may  easily  be  fore- 
seen, or  rather  it  is  the  very  nature  of  the  work  that  provokes 
censure  still  more  than  the  manner  in  which  it  was  treated ; 
for  such  a  composition  ought  to  be  judged  like  a  dream ; 
and  if  good  taste  were  always  watching  at  the  ivory  gate,  to 
oblige  our  visions  to  take  the  regulated  form,  they  would  sel- 
dom strike  the  imagination. 

Nevertheless,  the  drama  of  Faust  is  certainly  not  composed 
upon  a  good  model.  Whether  it  be  considered  as  an  offspring 
of  the  delirium  of  the  mind,  or  of  the  satiety  of  reason,  it  is  to 
be  wished  that  such  productions  may  not  be  multiplied ;  but 
when  such  a  genius  as  that  of  Goethe  sets  itself  free  from  all 
restrictions,  the  crowd  of  thoughts  is  so  great,  that  on  every 
side  they  break  through  and  trample  down  the  barriers  of  art. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

LUTHER,  ATTILA,  THE  SONS  OF  THE  VALLEY,  THE    CROSS   ON   THE 
BALTIC,  THE    TWENTY-FOURTH    OF   FEBRUARY,  BY  WERNER. 

SINCE  Schiller  is  no  more,  and  Goethe  has  ceased  to  write 
for  the  stage,  the  first  dramatic  author  of  Germany  is  Werner : 
nobody  has  known  better  than  he  how  to  throw  over  tragedy 
the  charm  and  the  dignity  cf  lyric  poetry;  nevertheless,  that 
which  renders  him  so  admirable  as  a  poet,  is  prejudicial  to  his 
success  in  the  representation.  His  pieces,  which  are  of  a  rare 


392  MADAME   DE    STAEL's    GERMANY. 

beauty,  if  we  look  only  at  the  songs,  the  odes,  the  religious  and 
philosophical  sentiments  that  abound  in  them,  are  extremely 
open  to  attack,  when  considered  as  dramas  for  action.  It  is 
not  that  Werner  is  deficient  in  theatrical  talent,  or  even  that 
he  is  not  much  better  acquainted  with  its  effects  than  the 
generality  of  German  writers ;  but  it  seems  as  if  he  wished  to 
propagate  a  mystical  system  of  love  and  religion  by  the  help 
of  the  dramatic  art,  and  that  his  tragedies  are  the  means  he 
makes  use  of,  rather  than  the  end  he  proposes  to  himself.1 

1  "  What  the  new  Creed  specially  was,  which  Werner  felt  so  eager  to 
plant  and  propagate,  we  nowhere  learn  with  any  distinctness.  Probably, 
he  might  himself  have  been  rather  at  a  loss  to  explain  it  r«  brief  com- 
pass. His  theogony,  we  suspect,  was  still  very  much  in  posse ;  and  per- 
haps only  the  moral  part  of  this  system  could  stand  before  him  with  some 
degree  of  clearness.  On  this  latter  point,  indeed,  he  is  determined  enough ; 
well  assured  of  his  dogmas,  and  apparently  waiting  but  for  some  proper 
vehicle  in  which  to  convey  them  to  the  minds  of  men.  His  fundamental 
principle  of  morals  does  not  exclusively  or  primarily  belong  to  himself; 
being  little  more  than  that  high  tenet  of  entire  Self-forgetfulness,  that 
'  merging  of  the  Me  in  the  Idea  /'  a  principle  which  reigns  both  in  Stoical 
and  Christian  ethics,  and  is  at  this  day  common,  in  theory,  among  all  Ger- 
man philosophers,  especially  of  the  Transcendental  class.  Werner  has 
adopted  this  principle  with  his  whole  heart  and  his  whole  soul  as  the 
indispensable  condition  of  all  Virtue.  He  believes  it,  we  should  say,  in- 
tensely, and  without  compromise,  exaggerating  rather  than  softening  or 
concealing  its  peculiarities.  He  will  not  have  Happiness,  under  any  form, 
to  be  the  real  or  chief  end  of  man ;  this  is  but  love  of  enjoyment,  disguise 
it  as  we  like ;  a  more  complex  and  sometimes  more  respectable  species  of 
hanger,  he  would  say,  to  be  admitted  as  an  indestructible  element  in  hu- 
man nature,  but  nowise  to  be  recognized  as  the  highest ;  on  the  contrary, 
to  be  resisted  and  incessantly  warred  with,  till  it  become  obedient  to  love 
of  God,  which  is  only,  in  the  truest  sense,  love  of  Goodness,  and  the  germ 
of  which  lies  deep  in  the  inmost  nature  of  man ;  of  authority  superior  to 
all  sensitive  impulses;  forming,  in  fact,  the  grand  law  of  his  being,  as 
subjection  to  it  forms  the  first  and  last  condition  of  spiritual  health.  He 
thinks  that  to  propose  a  reward  for  virtue  is  to  render  virtue  impossible. 
He  warmly  seconds  Schleiermacher  in  declaring  that  even  the  hope  of  Im- 
mortality is  a  consideration  unfit  to  be  introduced  into  religion,  and  tend- 
ing only  to  pervert  it,  and  impair  its  sacredness 

"  Such  was  the  spirit  of  that  new  Faith,  which,  symbolized  under  myth- 
uses  of  Baifometus  and  Phosphoros,  and  '  Saviours  from  the  Waters,'  and 
'  Trinities  of  Art,  Eeligion,  and  Love,'  and  to  be  preached  abroad  by  the 
aid  of  Schleiermacher,  and  what  was  then  called  the  New  Poetical  School, 
Werner  seriously  purposed,  like  another  Luther,  to  cast  forth,  as  good  seed, 
among  the  ruins  of  decayed  and  down-trodden  Protestantism !  Whether 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WKKNEK.  393 

Luther,  though  entirely  composed  with  this  secret  intention, 
has  met  with  the  greatest  success  on  the  stage  of  Berlin.  The 
Reformation  is  an  event  of  high  importance  for  the  world,  and 
particularly  for  Germany,  which  was  its  cradle.  The  hardi- 
hood and  reflective  heroism  of  Luther's  character  make  a  lively 
impression,  especially  in  a  country  where  thought  fills  up  by 
itself  alone  all  the  measure  of  existence :  no  subject,  then,  is 
capable  of  more  strongly  exciting  the  attention  of  Germans. 

Whatever  regards  the  effect  of  the  new  opinions  on  the 
minds  of  men,  is  extremely  well  painted  in  this  play  of  Wer- 
ner's. The  scene  opens  in  the  mines  of  Saxony,  not  far  from 
Wittenberg,  the  dwelling-place  of  Luther:  the  song  of  the 
miners  captivates  the  imagination ;  the  burden  of  this  song  is 
always  an  address  to  the  upper  earth,  the  free  air,  and  the  sun. 
These  uneducated  men,  already  laid  hold  of  by  Luther's  doc- 
trine, discourse  together  about  him  and  about  the  Reformation  : 
and,  in  the  obscurity  of  their  subterraneous  abodes,  employ 
their  minds  about  liberty  of  conscience,  the  inquiry  after  truth, 
this  new  day,  in  short,  this  new  light,  that  is  to  penetrate  the 
darkness  of  ignorance. 

In  the  second  act,  the  agents  of  the  Elector  of  Saxony  come 
to  throw  open  to  the  nuns  the  doors  of  their  convents.  This 
scene,  which  might  be  rendered  comic,  is  treated  with  an  affect- 
ing solemnity.  Werner  intimately  comprehends  all  the  di- 
versities of  Christian  worship ;  and  if  he  rightly  conceives  the 
noble  simplicity  of  Protestantism,  he  also  knows  the  severe 

Hitzig  was  still  young  enough  to  attempt  executing  his  commission,  and 
applying  to  Schlegel  and  Tieck  for  help ;  and  if  so,  in  what  gestures  of 
speechless  astonishment,  or  what  peals  of  inextinguishahle  laughter  they 
answered  him,  we  are  not  informed.  One  thing,  however,  is  clear:  that  a 
man  with  so  unbridled  an  imagination,  joined  to  so  weak  an  understand- 
ing, and  so  broken  a  volition,  who  had  plunged  so  deep  into  Theosophy, 
and  still  hovered  so  near  the  surface  in  all  practical  knowledge  of  men  and 
their  affairs ;  who,  shattered  and  degraded  in  his  own  private  character, 
could  meditate  such  apostolic  enterprises,  was  a  man  likely,  if  he  lived 
long,  to  play  fantastic  tricks  in  abundance ;  and,  at  least,  in  his  religious 
history,  to  set  the  world  a-wondering.  Conversion,  not  to  Popery,  but,  if 
it  so  chanced,  to  Braminism,  was  a  thing  nowise  to  be  thought  impoaai- 
ble."— (Carli/le's  Essays,  p.  45.)— Ed. 


394  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S   GERMANY. 

anctity  of  vows  made  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  The  abbess  of 
the  convent,  in  casting  off  the  veil  which  had  covered  the  dark 
ringlets  of  her  youth,  and  now  conceals  her  whitened  locks, 
experiences  a  sentiment  of  alarm  at  once  pathetic  and  natural ; 
and  expresses  her  sorrow  in  verses  harmonious  and  pure  as 
the  solitude  of  her  religious  retirement.  Among  these  female 
recluses  .is  she  who  is  afterwards  to  be  united  to  Luther,  and 
she  is  at  that  moment  the  most  adverse  of  all  to  his  influence. 

Among  the  beauties  of  this  act,  must  be  reckoned  the  por- 
trait of  Charles  the  Fifth,  of  that  sovereign  whose  soul  is  weary 
of  the  empire  of  the  world.  A  Saxon  gentleman  attached  to 
his  service  thus  expresses  himself  concerning  him :  "  This  gi- 
gantic man  has  no  heart  inclosed  within  his  frightful  breast. 
The  thunderbolt  of  the  Almighty  is  in  his  hand ;  but  he  knows 
not  how  to  join  with  it  the  apotheosis  of  love.  He  is  like  the 
young  eagle  that  grasps  the  entire  globe  of  earth  in  one  of  his 
talons,  and  is  about  to  devour  it  for  his  food."  These  few 
words  worthily  announce  Charles  the  Fifth ;  but  it  is  more 
easy  to  paint  such  a  character,  than  to  make  it  speak  for  itself. 

Luther  trusts  to  the  word  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  although  a 
hundred  years  before,  at  the  Council  of  Constance,  John  Huss 
and  Jerome  of  Prague  had  been  burnt  alive,  notwithstanding 
the  safe  conduct  of  the  Emperor  Sigisrnund.  On  the  eve  of 
repairing  to  Worms,  where  the  Diet  of  the  Empire  is  held, 
Luther's  courage  fails  him  for  a  few  moments ;  he  feels  himself 
seized  with  terror  and  misgiving.  His  young  disciple  brings  him 
the  flute  on  which  he  was  accustomed  to  play  to  restore  his 
depressed  spirits ;  he  takes  it,  and  its  harmonious  concords  re- 
produce in  his  heart  all  that  confidence  in  God  which  is  the 
wonder  of  spiritual  existence.  It  is  said  that  this  moment  excited 
great  sensation  on  the  Berlin  stage,  and  it  is  easy  to  conceive 
it.  Words,  however  beautiful,  cannot  effect  so  sudden  a  change 
of  our  inward  disposition  as  music ;  Luther  considered  it  as  an 
art  appertaining  to  theology,  and  powerfully  conducive  to  the 
development  of  religious  sentiment  in  the  human  heart. 

The  part  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  in  the  Diet  of  Worms,  is  not 
exempt  from  affectation,  and  is  consequently  wanting  in  gran- 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WERNER.  395 

deur.  The  author  has  attempted  to  put  in  opposition  the 
pride  of  the  Spaniards  and  the  rude  simplicity  of  the  Germans ; 
but  besides  that  Charles  the  Fifth  was  endowed  with  too  vast 
a  genius  to  belong  either  to  this  or  that  nation  exclusively,  it 
seems  to  me  that  Werner  should  have  taken  care  not  to  repre- 
sent a  man  of  an  arbitrary  will,  as  openly,  and  above  all  useless- 
ly, proclaiming  that  will.  It  loses  itself,  as  it  were,  by  being  ex- 
pressed ;  and  despotic  sovereigns  have  always  excited  more  fear 
by  what  they  concealed  than  by  what  they  displayed  to  sight. 

Werner,  with  all  the  wildness  of  his  imagination,  possesses 
a  very  acute  and  a  very  observing  mind ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
that,  in  the  part  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  he  has  made  use  of  col- 
ors that  are  not  varied  like  those  of  nature. 

One  of  the  fine  situations  of  this  play,  is  the  procession  to 
the  Diet  of  the  bishops,  the  cardinals,  and  all  the  pomp  of  the 
Catholic  religion  on  one  side ;  and  of  Luther,  Melancthon,  and 
some  of  their  disciples  of  the  reformed  faith,  clothed  in  black, 
and  singing  in  their  national  tongue  the  canticle  beginning, 
Our  God  is  our  place  of  strength*  on  the  other.  External 
magnificence  has  often  been  boasted  as  a  means  of  acting  upon 
the  imagination ;  but  when  Christianity  displays  itself  in  its 
pure  and  genuine  simplicity,  that  poetry  which  speaks  from 
the  bottom  of  the  soul  bears  the  palm  from  all  others. 

The  act  in  which  Luther  pleads  in  presence  of  Charles  the 
Fifth,  the  princes  of  the  empire,  and  the  diet,  opens  with  the 
discourse  of  Luther :  but  only  its  peroration  is  heard,  because 
he  is  judged  to  have  already  said  all  that  concerns  his  doctrine. 
After  he  has  spoken,  the  opinions  of  the  princes  and  deputies 
are  collected  respecting  his  suit.  The  different  interests  by 
which  men  are  agitated,  fear,  fanaticism,  ambition,  are  all  per- 
fectly characterized  in  these  opinions.  One  of  the  voters, 
among  others,  says  much  in  favor  of  Luther  and  of  his  doc- 
trine ;  but  he  adds,  at  the  same  time,  "  that,  since  all  the  world 
affirms  that  the  empire  is  troubled  by  it,  he  is  of  opinion, 
though  much  against  his  inclination,  that  Luther  ought  to  be 

1  Ein  •feste  Burg  1st  unser  Gott. — Ed. 


396  MADAME   DE    6TAEL,'s    GERMANY. 

burnt."  One  cannot  help  admiring,  in  the  works  of  Werner, 
the  perfect  knowledge  of  mankind  that  he  possesses,  and  it 
were  to  be  wished  that  he  would  descend  from  his  reveries  a 
little  oftener,  and  place  his  foot  on  the  earth  to  develop  in  his 
dramatic  writings  that  observing  spirit.  Luther  is  dismissed 
by  Charles  the  Fifth,  and  shut  up  for  some  time  in  the  fortress 
of  Wurtzburg,  because  his  friends,  with  the  Elector  of  Saxony 
at  their  head,  believed  him  to  be  more  secure  there.  He  re- 
appears at  last  in  Wittenberg,  where  he  has  established  his 
doctrine,  as  well  as  throughout  the  north  of  Germany. 

Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  fifth  act,  Luther  preaches  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  in  the  church  against  ancient  errors. 
He  announces  their  speedy  disappearance,  and  the  new  day  of 
reason  that  is  about  to  dawn.  At  this  instant,  on  the  stage  of 
Berlin,  the  tapers  are  seen  to  go  out  one  after  another,  and  the 
first  break  of  morning  appears  through  the  windows  of  the 
Gothic  cathedral. 

The  drama  of  Luther  is  so  animated,  so  varied,  that  it  is 
easy  to  conceive  how  it  must  have  ravished  all  the  spectators ; 
nevertheless  we  are  often  distracted  from  the  principal  idea  by 
singularities  and  allegories,  which  are  ill-suited  to  an  historical 
subject,  and  particularly  so  to  theatrical  representation. 

Catharine  on  beholding  Luther,  whom  she  detested,  exclaims, 
"  Behold  my  ideal !"  and  immediately  the  most  violent  love 
takes  possession  of  her  soul.  Werner  believes  that  there  is 
predestination  in  love,  and  that  beings  who  are  made  for  each 
other,  recognize  at  first  sight.  This  is  a  very  agreeable  doc- 
trine of  metaphysics,  and  admirably  well  fitted  for  madrigals, 
but  which  would  hardly  be  comprehended  on  the  stage ;  be- 
sides, nothing  can  be  more  strange  than  this  exclamation  of 
idealism  as  addressed  to  Martin  Luther ;  for  he  is  represented 
to  us  as  a  fat  monk,  learned  and  scholastic,  very  ill  suited  to 
have  applied  to  him  the  most  romantic  expression  that  can  be 
borrowed  from  the  modern  theory  of  the  fine  arts. 

Two  angels,  under  the  form  of  a  young  man,  the  disciple  of 
Luther,  and  a  young  girl,  the  friend  of  Catharine,  seem  to  pass 
through  the  whole  performance  with  hyacinths  and  palms,  as 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WERNER.  397 

symbols  of  purity  and  of  faith.  These  two  angels  disappear 
at  the  end,  and  the  imagination  follows  them  into  the  air ;  but 
the  pathetic  is  less  strongly  felt  when  fanciful  pictures  are  made 
use  of  to  embellish  the  situation ;  it  is  a  new  sort  of  pleasure, 
no  longer  that  to  which  the  emotions  of  the  soul  give  birth ; 
for  compassion  cannot  exist  without  sympathy.  We  wish  to 
judge  of  characters  on  the  stage  as  of  really  existing  persons ; 
to  censure  or  approve  their  actions,  to  guess  them,  to  compre- 
hend them,  to  transport  ourselves  into  their  places,  so  as  to  expe- 
rience all  the  interest  of  real  life,  without  dreading  its  dangers.' 

1  Martin  Luther,  oder  die  Weihe  der  Kraft  (Martin  Luther,  or  the  Conse- 
cration of  Strength),  "  cannot,"  says  Carlyle,  "  be  named  among  the  best 
dramas:  it  is  not  even  the  best  of  Werner's.  There  is,  indeed,  much 
scenic  exhibition — many  a  '  fervid  sentiment,'  as  the  newspapers  have  it ; 
nay,  with  all  its  mixture  of  coarseness,  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of  genu- 
ine dramatic  inspiration ;  but,  as  a  whole,  the  work  sorely  disappoints  us  ; 
it  is  of  so  loose  and  mixed  a  structure,  and  falls  asunder  in  our  thoughts 
like  the  iron  and  clay  in  the  Chaldean's  Dream.  There  is  an  interest,  per- 
haps of  no  trivial  sort,  awakened  in  the  first  act ;  but,  unhappily,  it  goes 
on  declining,  till,  in  the  fifth,  an  ill-natured  critic  might  almost  say,  it 
expires.  The  story  is  too  wide  for  Werners  dramatic  lens  to  gather  into 
a  focus ;  besides,  the  reader  brings  with  him  an  image  of  it,  too  fixed  for 
being  so  boldly  metamorphosed,  and  too  high  and  august  for  being  orna- 
mented with  tinsel  and  gilt  pasteboard.  Accordingly,  the  Diet  of  Worms, 
plentifully  furnished  as  it  is  with  sceptres  and  armorial  shields,  continues 
a  much  grander  scene  in  History  than  it  is  here  in  Fiction.  Neither,  with 
regard  to  the  persons  of  the  play,  excepting  those  of  Luther  and  Catha- 
rine, the  nun  whom  he  weds,  can  we  find  much  scope  for  praise.  Nay,  our 
praise  even  of  these  two  must  have  many  limitations.  Catharine,  though 
carefully  enough  depicted,  is,  in  fact,  little  more  than  a  common  tragedy 
queen,  with  the  storminess,  the  love,  and  other  stage  heroism,  which  be- 
long prescriptively  to  that  class  of  dignitaries.  With  regard  to  Luther 
himself,  it  is  evident  that  Werner  has  put  forth  his  whole  strength  in  this 
delineation ;  and,  trying  him  by  common  standards,  we  are  far  from  saying 
that  he  has  failed.  Doubtless  it  is,  in  some  respects,  a  significant  and 
even  sublime  delineation ;  yet  must  we  ask  whether  it  is  Luther,  the 
Luther  of  History,  or  even  the  Luther  proper  for  this  drama,  and  not 
rather  some  ideal  portraiture  of  Zacharias  Werner  himself?  Is  not  this 
Luther,  with  his  too  assiduous  flute-playing,  his  trances  of  three  days,  his 
visions  of  the  Devil  (at  whom,  to  the  sorrow  of  the  housemaid,  he  reso- 
lutely throws  his  huge  ink-bottle),  by  much  too  spasmodic  and  brainsick 
a  personage  ?  We  cannot  but  question  the  dramatic  beauty,  whatever  is 
may  be  in  history,  of  that  three  days'  trance ;  the  hero  must  before  thU 
liave  been  in  want  of  mere  victuals :  and  there,  as  he  sits  deaf  and  dumb, 


398  MADAME   DE    STAEI.'s    GERMANY. 

The  opinions  of  Werner,  in  respect  to  love  and  religion, 
ought  not  to  be  slightly  examined.  What  he  feels  is  assuredly 
true  for  him ;  but  since,  in  these  respects  particularly,  every 
individual  has  a  different  point  of  view  and  different  impres- 

with  his  eyes  sightless,  yet  fixed  and  staring,  are  we  not  tempted  less  to 
admire,  than  to  send  in  all  haste  for  some  officer  of  the  Humane  Society? 
Seriously,  we  cannot  but  regret  that  these  and  other  such  blemishes  had 
not  been  avoided,  and  the  character,  worked  into  chasteness  and  purity, 
been  presented  to  us  in  the  simple  grandeur  which  essentially  belongs  to 
it.  For,  censure  as  we  may,  it  were  blindness  to  deny  that  this  figure  of 
Luther  has  in  it  features  of  an  austere  loveliness,  a  mild,  yet  awful  beauty : 
undoubtedly  a  figure  rising  from  the  depths  of  the  poet's  soul ;  and, 
marred  as  it  is  with  such  adhesions,  piercing  at  times  into  the  depths  of 
ours  !  Among  so  many  poetical  sins,  it  forms  the  chief  redeeming  virtue, 
and  truly  were  almost  in  itself  a  sort  of  atonement. 

"  As  for  the  other  characters,  they  need  not  detain  us  long.  Of  Charlea 
the  Fifth,  by  far  the  most  ambitious, — meant,  indeed,  as  the  counterpoise 
of  Luther, — we  may  say,  without  hesitation,  that  he  is  a  failure.  An 
empty  Gascon  this ;  bragging  of  his  power,  and  honor,  and  the  like,  in 
a  style  which  Charles,  even  in  his  nineteenth  year,  could  never  have  used. 
'  One  God,  one  Charles,'  is  no  speech  for  an  emperor ;  and,  besides,  is  bor- 
rowed from  some  panegyrist  of  a  Spanish  opera-singer.  Neither  can  we 
fall  in  with  Charles,  when  he  tells  us  that  '  he  fears  nothing — not  ever 
God.'  We  humbly  think  he  must  be  mistaken.  With  the  old  Miners, 
again, — with  Hans  Luther  and  his  wife,  the  Reformer's  parents,  there  is 
more  reason  to  be  satisfied ;  yet  in  Werner's  hands  simplicity  is  always 
apt,  in  such  cases,  to  become  too  simple,  and  these  honest  peasants,  like 
the  honest  Hugo  in  the  '  Sons  of  the  Valley,'  are  very  garrulous. 

"  This  drama  of  '  Martin  Luther'  is  named  likewise  the  '  Consecration  of 
Strength ;'  that  is,  we  suppose,  the  purifying  of  this  great  theologian  from 
all  remnants  of  earthly  passion,  into  a  clear,  heavenly  zeal ;  an  operation 
which  is  brought  about,  strangely  enough,  by  two  half-ghosts  and  one 
whole  ghost, — a  little  fairy  girl,  Catharine's  servant,  who  impersonates 
Faith ;  a  little  fairy  youth,  Luther's  servant,  who  represents  Art ;  and  the 
'  Spirit  of  Cotta's  wife,'  an  honest  housekeeper,  but  defunct  many  years 
before,  who  stands  for  Purity.  These  three  supcrnaturals  hover  about  in 
very  whimsical  wise,  cultivating  flowers,  playing  on  flutes,  and  singing 
dirge-like  epithalamiums  over  unsound  sleepers :  we  cannot  see  how  aught 
of  this  is  to  '  consecrate  strength ;'  or,  indeed,  what  such  jack-o'-lantern 
personages  have  in  the  least  to  do  with  so  grave  a  business.  If  the  author 
intended  by  such  machinery  to  elevate  his  subject  from  the  Common,  and 
unite  it  with  the  higher  region  of  the  Infinite  and  the  Invisible,  we  cannot 
think  that  his  contrivance  has  succeeded,  or  was  worthy  to  succeed.  These 
half-allegorical,  half-corporeal  beings,  yield  no  contentment  anywhere : 
Abstract  Ideas,  however  they  may  put  on  fleshly  garments,  are  a  class  of 
characters  whom  we  cannot  sympathize  with  or  delight  in.  Besides,  how 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WERNER.  399 

sions,  it  is  not  right  that  an  author  should  make  an  art,  which 
is  essentially  universal  and  popular,  conduce  to  the  propaga- 
tion of  his  own  personal  opinion. 

Another  very  fine  and  very  original  production  of  Werner's 
is  his  Attila.  The  author  takes  up  the  history  of  this  xcourge 
of  God  at  the  moment  of  his  appearance  before  the  gates  of 
Rome.  The  first  act  opens  with  the  lamentations  of  women 
and  children  who  have  just  escaped  from  the  ashes  of  Aqui- 
leia ;  and  this  exposition  into  action  not  only  excites  interest 
from  the  first,  but  gives  a  terrible  idea  of  the  power  of  Attila. 
It  is  a  necessary  art  for  the  stage  to  make  known  the  principal 
characters,  rather  by  the  effect  they  produce  on  those  about 
them,  than  by  a  portrait,  how  striking  soever.  A  single  man, 
multiplied  by  those  who  obey  him,  fills  Asia  and  Europe  with 
consternation.  What  a  gigantic  image  of  despotic  will  does 
this  spectacle  afford  us  ! 

Next  to  the  character  of  Attila  is  that  of  a  princess  of  Bur- 
gundy, Hildegonde,  who  is  about  to  be  united  to  him,  and  by 
whom  he  imagines  himself  beloved.  This  princess  harbors  a 

can  this  mere  embodiment  of  an  allegory  be  supposed  to  act  on  the  rugged 
materials  of  life,  and  elevate  into  ideal  grandeur  the  doings  of  real  men, 
that  live  and  move  amid  the  actual  pressure  of  worldly  things  ?  At  best, 
it  can  stand  but  like  a  hand  in  the  margin :  it  is  not  performing  the  task 
proposed,  but  only  telling  us  that  it  was  meant  to  be  performed.  To  our 
feelings,  this  entire  episode  runs  like  straggling  bindweed  through  the 
whole  growth  of  the  piece,  not  so  much  uniting  as  encumbering  and  chok- 
ing up  what  it  meets  with ;  in  itself,  perhaps,  a  green  and  rather  pretty 
weed ;  yet  here  superfluous,  and,  like  any  other  weed,  deserving  only  to 
be  altogether  cut  away. 

"  Our  general  opinion  of '  Martin  Luther,'  it  would  seem,  therefore,  cor- 
responds ill  with  that  of  the  '  overflowing  and  delighted  audiences'  over 
all  Germany.  We  believe,  however,  that  now,  in  its  twentieth  year,  the 
work  may  be  somewhat  more  calmly  judged  of  even  there.  As  a  classical 
drama  it  could  never  pass  with  any  critic ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  shall 
we  ourselves  deny  that,  in  the  lower  sphere  of  a  popular  spectacle,  its 
attractions  are  manifold.  We  find  it,  what,  more  or  less,  we  find  all  Wer- 
ner's pieces  to  be,  a  splendid,  sparkling  mass ;  yet  not  of  pure  metal,  but 
of  many-colored  scoria,  not  unmingled  with  metal ;  and  must  regret,  as 
ever,  that  it  had  not  been  refined  in  a  stronger  furnace,  and  kept  in  the 
crucible  till  the  true  rilvtr-gUam,  glancing  from  it,  had  shown  that  the 
process  was  complete."—  (Essays,  pp.  48,  49.) — Ed. 


4-00  MADAME   DE    STAKT.'s    GERMANY. 

deep  feeling  of  vengeance  against  him  for  the  deaths  of  her 
father  and  lover.  She  is  resolved  to  marry,  only  that  she  may 
assassinate  him ;  and,  by  a  singular  refinement  of  hatred,  she 
nurses  him  when  wounded,  that  he  may  not  die  the  honorable 
death  of  a  soldier.  This  woman  is  painted  like  the  goddess  of 
war ;  her  fair  hair  and  her  scarlet  vest  seem  to  unite  in  her 
person  the  images  of  weakness  and  fury.  It  is  a  mysterious 
character,  which  at  first  takes  strong  hold  on  the  imagination ; 
but,  when  this  mystery  goes  on  continually  increasing,  when 
the  poet  gives  us  to  suppose  that  an  infernal  power  has  obtain- 
ed possession  of  her,  and  that  not  only,  at  the  end  of  the  piece, 
she  immolates  Attila  on  the  wedding  night,  but  stabs  his  son, 
of  the  age  of  fourteen  years,  by  his  side,  this  creature  loses  all 
the  features  of  womanhood,  and  the  aversion  she  inspires  gains 
the  ascendency  over  the  terror  she  is  otherwise  calculated  to 
excite.  Nevertheless,  this  whole  part  of  Hildcgonde  is  an 
original  invention ;  and,  in  an  epic  poem,  which  might  admit 
of  allegorical  personages,  this  Fury  in  the  disguise  of  gentle- 
ness, attached  to  the  steps  of  a  tyrant,  like  perfidious  Flattery, 
might  doubtless  produce  a  grand  effect. 

At  last  this  terrible  Attila  appears  in  the  midst  of  the  flames 
that  have  consumed  the  city  of  Aquileia ;  he  seats  himself  on 
the  ruins  of  the  palace  he  has  just  destroyed,  and  seems  charg- 
ed with  the  task  of  accomplishing  alone,  in  a  single  day,  the 
work  of  ages.  He  has  a  sort  of  superstition,  as  it  were,  that 
centres  in  his  own  person, — is  himself  the  object  of  his  own 
worship,  believes  in  himself,  regards  himself  as  the  instrument 
of  the  decrees  of  heaven,  and  this  conviction  mingles  a  certain 
system  of  equity  with  his  crimes.  He  reproaches  his  enemies 
with  their  faults,  as  if  he  had  not  committed  more  than  all  of 
them  ;  he  is  a  ferocious,  and  yet  a  generous  barbarian, — he  is 
despotic,  and  yet  shows  himself  faithful  to  his  word ;  to  con- 
clude, in  the  midst  of  all  the  riches  of  the  world  he  lives  a 
soldier,  and  asks  nothing  of  earth  but  the  enjoyment  of  sub- 
duing her. 

Attila  performs  the  functions  of  a  judge  in  the  public  square, 
and  there  pronounces  sentence  on  the  crimes  that  are  brought 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WERNER.  401 

before  his  tribunal,  with  a  natural  instinct  that  penetrates 
deeper  into  the  principles  of  action  than  abstract  laws,  which 
decide  alike  upon  cases  materially  different.  lie  condemns  his 
friend  who  is  guilty  of  perjury,  embraces  him  in  tears,  but 
orders  that  he  shall  be  instantly  torn  to  pieces  by  horses ;  he 
is  guided  by  the  notion  of  an  inflexible  necessity,  and  his  own 
will  appears  to  him  to  constitute  that  necessity.  The  emotions 
of  his  soul  have  a  sort  of  rapidity  and  decision  which  excludes 
all  shades  of  distinction ;  it  seems  as  if  that  soul  bore  itself 
altogether,  with  the  irresistible  impulse  of  physical  strength, 
in  the  direction  it  follows.  At  last  they  bring  before  his  tri- 
bunal a  man  who  has  slain  his  brother :  having  himself  been 
guilty  of  the  same  crime,  he  is  strongly  agitated,  and  refuses 
to  be  the  judge  of  the  culprit.  Attila,  with  all  his  transgres- 
sions, believed  himself  charged  with  the  accomplishment  of 
the  divine  justice  on  earth,  and,  when  called  upon  to  condemn 
another  for  an  outrage  similar  to  that  by  which  his  own  life 
has  been  soiled,  something  in  the  nature  of  remorse  takes  pos- 
session of  him  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  soul. 

The  second  act  is  a  truly  admirable  representation  of  the 
court  of  Valentinian  at  Rome.  The  author  brings  on  the  stage, 
with  equal  sagacity  and  justice,  the  frivolity  of  the  young  Em- 
peror who  is  not  turned  aside  by  the  impending  ruin  of  his 
empire  from  his  accustomed  range  of  amusements ;  the  insolence 
of  the  Empress-mother,  who  knows  not  how  to  sacrifice  the  least 
portion  of  her  animosities  to  the  safety  of  the  state,  and  who 
abandons  herself  to  the  most  abject  baseness,  the  moment  any 
personal  danger  threatens  her.  The  courtiers,  indefatigable 
in  intrigue,  still  seek  each  other's  ruin  on  the  eve  of  the  ruin 
of  all ;  and  ancient  Rome  is  punished  by  a  barbarian  for  the 
tyranny  she  exercised  over  the  rest  of  the  world :  this  picture 
is  worthy  of  a  poetical  historian  like  Tacitus. 

In  the  midst  of  characters  so  true,  appears  Pope  Leo,  a  sub- 
lime personage  furnished  by  history,  and  the  Princess  Hono- 
ria,  whose  inheritance  is  claimed  by  Attila  for  the  purpose  ol 
restoring  it  to  her.  Honoria  secretly  imbibes  a  passionate  love 
for  the  proud  conqueror  whom  she  has  never  beheld,  but  whose 


402  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

glory  has  inflamed  her  imagination.  We  see  that  the  author1; 
intention  has  been  to  make  Hildegonde  and  Honoria  the  good 
and  evil  genius  of  Attila ;  and  from  the  moment  we  perceive 
the  allegory  which  we  fancy  to  be  wrapped  up  in  these  per- 
sonages, the  dramatic  interest  which  they  are  otherwise  calcu- 
lated to  inspire  grows  cold.  This  interest,  nevertheless,  is  ad- 
mirably revived  in  many  scenes  of  the  play,  particularly  when 
Attila,  after  having  defeated  the  armies  of  the  Emperor  Valen- 
tinian,  marches  to  Rome,  and  meets  on  his  road  Pope  Leo, 
borne  in  a  litter,  and  preceded  by  all  the  pomp  of  the  priest- 
hood. Leo  calls  upon  him,  in  the  name  of  God,  to  abstain  from 
entering  the  eternal  city.  Attila  immediately  experiences  a 
religious  terror,  till  that  moment  a  stranger  to  his  soul.  He 
fancies  that  he  beholds  St.  Peter  in  heaven,  standing  with  a 
drawn  sword  to  prohibit  his  advance.  This  scene  is  the  sub- 
ject of  an  admirable  picture  of  Raphael's.  On  one  side,  a  calm 
dignity  reigns  in  the  figure  of  the  defenceless  old  man,  surrounded 
by  other  men,  who  all,  like  himself,  repose  with  confidence  in  the 
protection  of  God ;  and  on  the  other,  consternation  is  painted 
on  the  formidable  countenance  of  the  king  of  the  Huns ;  his 
very  horse  rears  with  affright  at  the  blaze  of  celestial  radiance, 
and  the  soldiers  of  the  invincible  cast  down  their  eyes  before 
the  white  hairs  of  the  holy  man,  who  passes  without  fear 
.  through  the  midst  of  them. 

The  words  of  the  poet  finely  express  the  sublime  design  of 
the  painter ;  the  discourse  of  Leo  is  an  inspired  hymn ;  and 
the  manner  in  which  the  conversion  of  the  warrior  of  the 
North  is  indicated  seems  to  me  also  truly  admirable.  Attila, 
his  eyes  turned  towards  heaven,  and  contemplating  the  appa- 
rition which  he  thinks  he  beholds,  calls  Edecon,  one  of  the 
chiefs  of  his  army,  and  says  to  him : 

"Edecon,  dost  thou  not  perceive  there  on  high  a  terrible  giant? 
Dost  thou  not  behold  him  even  above  the  place  where  the  old  man  is 
made  conspicuous  by  the  refulgence  of  heaven  ? 

EDECOX. 

"  I  see  only  the  ravens  descending  in  troops  over  the  dead  bodies  on 
which  they  are  going  to  feed. 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WEKNEE.  403 

ATTILA. 

"  No  ;  it  is  not  a  phantom  :  perhaps  it  is  the  image  of  him  who  is 
alone  able  to  absolve  or  condemn.  Did  not  the  old  man  predict  it? 
Behold  the  giant  whose  head  is  in  heaven,  and  whose  feet  touch  the 
earth  ;  he  menaces  with  his  flames  the  spot  upon  which  we  are  stand- 
ing ;  he  is  there,  before  us,  motionless  ;  he  points  his  flaming  sword 
dgainst  me,  like  my  judge. 

EDECON. 

"  These  flames  are  the  light  of  heaven,  which  at  this  moment  gilds 
the  domes  of  the  Roman  temples. 

ATTILA. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  temple  of  gold,  studded  with  pearls,  that  he  bears  upon 
his  whitened  head ;  in  one  hand  he  holds  his  flaming  sword,  in  the 
other  two  brazen  keys,  encircled  with  flowers  and  rays  of  light ;  two 
keys  that  the  giant  has  doubtless  received  from  the  hands  of  Odin,  to 
open  or  shut  the  gates  of  Valhalla." ' 

From  this  moment,  the  Christian  religion  operates  on  the 
soul  of  Attila,  in  spite  of  the  belief  of  his  ancestors,  and  he 
commands  his  army  to  retreat  to  a  distance  from  Rome. 

The  tragedy  should  have  ended  here,  and  it  already  con- 
tains a  sufficient  number  of  beauties  to  furnish  out  many  reg- 
ular pieces ;  but  a  fifth  act  is  added,  in  which  Leo,  who,  for 
a  pope,  is  much  too  deeply  initiated  in  the  mystic  theory  of 
love,  conducts  the  Princess  Honoria  to  Attila's  camp  on  the 
very  night  in  which  Hildegonde  marries  and  assassinates  him. 
The  Pope,  who  has  a  foreknowledge  of  this  event,  predicts, 
without  preventing  it,  because  it  is  necessary  that  the  fate  of 
Attila  should  be  accomplished.  Honoria  and  Pope  Leo  offer 
up  prayers  for  him  on  the  stage.  The  piece  ends  with  a  Hal- 
hlujah,  and  rising  towards  heaven  like  a  poetic  incense,  evap- 
orates instead  of  being  concluded. 

Werner's  versification  is  full  of  admirable  secrets  of  harmo- 
ny, but  we  cannot  give  in  a  translation  any  idea  of  its  merit 
in  this  respect.  I  remember,  among  other  things,  in  one  of 
his  tragedies,  the  subject  of  which  is  taken  from  Polish  his- 

1  No  German  copy  of  Werner  is  at  hand,  and  we  have  been  obliged  to 
take  this  passage  from  Madame  de  Stael's  French  version. — Ed, 


404  MADAME   DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

tory,  the  wonderful  effect  of  a  chorus  of  young  phantoms 
appearing  in  the  air ;  the  poet  knows  how  to  change  the  Ger- 
man into  a  soft  and  tender  language,  which  these  wearied  and 
uninterested  shades  articulate  with  half-formed  tones ;  all  the 
words  they  pronounce,  all  the  rhymes  of  the  verses,  seem  like 
vapor.  The  sense  of  the  words,  also,  is  admirably  adapted  to 
the  situation ;  they  paint  a  state  of  frigid  repose,  of  dull  in- 
difference ;  they  reverberate  the  distant  echoes  of  life,  and  the 
pale  reflection  of  faded  impressions  casts  a  veil  of  clouds  over 
universal  nature. 

If  Werner  admits  into  his  tragedies  the  shades  of  the  de- 
parted, we  sometimes  also  find  in  them  fantastic  personages 
that  seem  not  yet  to  have  received  any  earthly  existence.  In 
the  prologue  to  the  Tartare  of  Beaumarchais,  a  Genius  questions 
these  imaginary  beings  whether  they  wish  to  have  birth,  and 
one  among  them  answers  :  "  I  do  not  feel  myself  at  all  eager 
about  it."  This  lively  answer  may  be  applied  to  most  of  those 
allegorical  personages  which  they  take  pleasure  in  bringing 
forward  on  the  German  stage. 

Werner  has  composed,  on  the  subject  of  the  Templars,  a 
piece  in  two  volumes,  called  the  Sons  of  the  Valley  ;'  a  piece 


1  "  The  Sohne  des  Thais  is  a  drama,  or,  rather,  two  dramas,  unrivalled  at 
least  in  one  particular,  in  length :  each  part  being  a  play  of  six  acts,  and 
the  whole  amounting  to  somewhat  more  than  eight  hundred  small  octavo 
pages  !  To  attempt  any  analysis  of  such  a  work  would  but  fatigue  our 
readers  to  little  purpose :  it  is,  as  might  be  anticipated,  of  a  most  loose  and 
formless  structure  ;  expanding  on  all  sides  into  vague  boundlessness,  and, 
on  the  whole;  resembling  not  so  much  a  poem,  as  the  rude  materials  of  one. 
The  subject  is  the  destruction  of  the  Templar  order ;, an  event  which  has 
been  dramatized  more  than  once,  but  on  which,  notwithstanding,  Werner, 
we  suppose,  may  boast  of  being  entirely  original.  The  fate  of  Jacques 
Molay  and  his  brethren  act  here  but  like  a  little  leaven ;  and  lucky  were 
we,  could  it  leaven  the  lump ;  but  it  lies  buried  under  such  a  mass  of 
Mystical  theology,  Masonic  mummery,  Cabalistic  tradition,  and  Kosicrucian 
philosophy,  as  no  power  could  work  into  dramatic  union.  The  incidents 
are  few,  and  of  little  interest;  interrupted  continually  by  flaring  shows, 
and  Ijng-winded  speculations  ;  for  Werner's  besetting  sin,  that  of  loquaci- 
ty, is  here  in  decided  action ;  and  so  we  wander,  in  aimless  windings, 
through  scene  after  scene  of  gorgeousness  or  gloom,  till  at  last  the  whole 
rises  before  us  like  a  wild  phantasmagoria :  cloud  heaped  on  cloud,  painted 


THE  DRAMAS  OF  WEKNEK.  405 

which  possesses  great  interest  for  those  who  are  initiated  into 
the  doctrine  of  secret  orders  ;  for  it  is  rather  the  spirit  of  these 
orders,  than  the  historical  color,  that  is  principally  remarkable 
in  them.  The  poet  seeks  to  connect  the  Free-Masons  with  the 
Templars,  and  applies  himself  to  the  task  of  showing  that  the 
same  traditions,  and  the  same  spirit  have  been  always  preserv- 
ed among  both.  The  imagination  of  Werner  singularly  de- 
lights itself  in  these  associations,  which  have  the  air  of  some- 
thing supernatural,  because  they  multiply,  in  an  extraordinary 
degree,  the  force  of  each,  by  giving  a  like  tendency  to  all. 
This  play,  or  this  poem,  of  the  Sons  of  the  Valley,  has  caused 
a  great  sensation  in  Germany ;  I  doubt  whether  it  would  ob- 
tain an  equal  degree  of  success  among  ourselves. 

Another  composition  of  Werner's  well  worthy  of  notice,  is 
that  which  has  for  its  subject  the  introduction  of  Christianity 
into  Prussia  and  Livonia.  This  dramatic  romance  is  entitled 
the  Cross  on  the  Baltic.  There  reigns  throughout  a  very  lively 
sentiment  of  all  that  characterizes  the  North,  the  amber- 
fishery,  mountains  rough  with  ice,  the  asperity  of  the  climate, 
the  rapid  influence  of  spring,  the  hostility  of  nature,  the  rude- 
ness which  this  warfare  instils  into  man  ;  and  we  recognize  in 

indeed  here  and  there  with  prismatic  hues,  but  representing  nothing,  or  at 
least  not  the  subject,  but  the  author. 

"In  this  last  point  of  view,  however,  as  a  picture  of  himself,  independ- 
ently of  other  considerations,  this  play  of  Werner's  may  still  have  a  cer- 
tain value  for  us.  The  strange,  chaotic  nature  of  the  man  is  displayed  in 
it :  his  skepticism  and  theosity ;  his  audacity,  yet  intrinsic  weakness  of 
character ;  his  baffled  longings,  but  still  ardent  endeavors  after  Truth  and 
Good ;  his  search  for  them  in  far  journeyings,  not  on  the  beaten  highways, 
but  through  the  pathless  infinitude  of  Thought.  To  call  it  a  work  of  art 
would  be  a  misapplication  of  names :  it  is  little  more  than  a  rhapsodio 
effusion ;  the  outpouring  of  a  passionate  and  mystic  soul,  only  half  know- 
ing what  it  utters,  and  not  ruling  its  own  movements,  but  ruled  by  them. 
It  is  fair  to  add,  that  such  also,  in  a  great  measure,  was  Werner's  own 
view  of  the  matter ;  most  likely  the  utterance  of  these  things  gave  him 
such  relief,  that  crude  as  they  were,  he  could  not  suppress  them.  For  it 
ought  to  be  remembered,  that  in  this  performance  one  condition,  at  least, 
of  genuine  inspiration  is  not  wanting :  Werner  evidently  thinks  that  in 
these,  his  ultramundane  excursions,  he  has  found  truth ;  he  has  something 
positive  to  set  forth,  and  he  feels  himself  as  if  bound  on  a  high  and  holy 
mission,  in  preaching  it  to  his  fellow-men." — (Oarlyle's  Essays,  p.  38). — Ed. 


4:06  MADAME   DE    STAEL?S    GERMANY. 

these  pictures  a  poet  who  has  had  recourse  to  sensations  he 
has  himself  experienced  for  all  that  he  describes  and  expresses.1 
I  have  seen  acted,  at  a  private  theatre,  a  piece  of  Werner's 
composition,  entitled  the  Twenty-fourth  of  February,  a  piece 
on  which  opinions  would  be  greatly  divided.  The  author  -sup- 
poses that,  in  the  solitudes  of  Switzerland,  there  dwelt  a  family 
of  peasants,  which  had  rendered  itself  guilty  of  the  most  atro- 
cious crimes,  and  was  pursued  by  a  paternal  malediction  from 
father  to  son.  The  third  of  these  accursed  generations  pre- 
sents the  spectacle  of  a  man  who,  by  an  outrage,  has  caused 
the  death  of  his  father ;  the  son  of  this  unhappy  wretch  has,  in 
his  childhood,  killed  his  own  sister  in  a  cruel  sport,  but  with- 
out knowing  what  he  was  about.  After  this  frightful  event, 
he  has  disappeared.  The  labors  of  the  parricidal  father  have 
been  ever  since  visited  by  continual  bad  fortune ;  his  fields 
have  become  barren,  his  cattle  have  perished ;  the  most  fright- 
ful poverty  overwhelms  him ;  his  creditors  threaten  to  seize 
his  cottage,  and  throw  him  into  prison ;  his  wife  wanders  alone 
in  the  midst  of  the  Alpine  snows.  All  at  once  the  son  arrives, 
after  an  absence  of  twenty  years.  He  is  animated  by  tender 
and  religious  sentiments,  and  inspired  with  true  repentance, 
though  he  had  been  guilty  of  no  criminal  intention.  He  re- 
turns to  his  father's  house,  and  as  he  is  too  much  altered  to  be 
recognized  by  him,  forms  the  resolution  of  concealing  from  him 


1  "  Of  this  Krevz  an  der  Ostsee,  our  limits  will  permit  us  to  say  but  little. 
It  is  still  a  fragment ;  the  Second  Part,  which  was  often  promised,  and, 
we  believe,  partly  written,  having  never  yet  been  published.  In  some  re- 
spects, it  appears  to  us  the  best  of  Werner's  dramas  :  there  is  a  decisive 
coherence  in  the  plot,  such  as  we  seldom  find  with  him  ;  and  a  firmness,  a 
rugged  nervous  brevity  in  the  dialogue,  which  is  equally  rare.  Here,  too, 
the  mystic,  dreamy  agencies,  which,  as  in  most  of  his  pieces,  he  has  inter- 
woven with  the  action,  harmonize  more  than  usually  with  the  spirit  of  the 
whole.  It  is  a  wild  subject,  and  this  helps  to  give  it  a  corresponding  wild- 
ness  of  locality.  The  first  planting  of  Christianity  among  the  Prussians, 
by  the  Teutonic  Knights,  leads  us  back  of  itself  into  dim  ages  of  antiquity, 
of  superstitious  barbarism,  and  stern,  apostolic  zeal ;  it  is  a  scene  hanging, 
as  it  were,  in  half-ghastly  chiaroscuro,  on  a  ground  of  primeval  Night : 
where  the  Cross  and  St.  Adalbert  come  in  contact  with  the  Sacred  Oak, 
and  the  Idols  of  Eomova,  we  are  not  surprised  that  spectral  shapes  peer 
forth  on  us  from  the  gloom." — (Carlyle's  Essays,  p.  48). — Ed. 


THE   DRAAIAS   OF   WERNER.  407 

his  name  at  first,  in  order  to  gain  his  affection,  before  he  con- 
fesses himself  to  be  his  son  ;  but  the  father,  in  his  misery,  be- 
comes greedy  and  covetous  of  the  money  that  is  carried  about 
him  by  his  guest,  whom  he  believes  to  be  a  vagabond  foreigner, 
of  suspicious  character  ;  and  when  the  hour  of  midnight  strikes, 
on  the  twenty-fourth  of  February,  the  anniversary  of  the  pater- 
nal malediction,  by  which  the  whole  family  is  visited,  he 
plunges  a  knife  into  his  son's  bosom.  The  latter,  in  his  last 
moments,  reveals  his  secret  to  this  double  criminal,  the  assassin 
of  his  father  and  of  his  child ;  and  the  miserable  wretch  goes 
to  deliver  himself  up  to  the  tribunal  that  must  condemn  him. 

These  situations  are  appalling  ;  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they 
produce  a  great  effect ;  nevertheless,  the  poetical  color  of  the 
piece,  and  the  gradation  of  motives  derived  from  the  passions,  are 
more  to  be  admired  than  the  subject  on  which  it  is  founded.1 

To  transfer  the  fatal  destiny  of  the  house  of  Atreus  to 
people  of  the  lower  ranks  of  society,  is  to  bring  the  contem- 
plation of  crimes  too  familiarly  before  the  eyes  of  the  spec- 
tators. The  splendor  of  rank,  and  the  distance  of  ages,  give 
to  wickedness  itself  a  species  of  grandeur  which  agrees  better 
with  the  ideal  in  art ;  but  when  the  knife  is  presented  to  you 
instead  of  the  poniard,  when  the  situation,  the  manners,  the 
characters  are  such  as  you  may  meet  with  every  day,  you  are 
frightened,  like  children  in  a  dark  room,  but  it  is  not  the 
noble  horror  that  tragedy  ought  to  awaken. 

Still,  however,  this  potency  of  the  paternal  curse,  which 
seems  to  represent  a  providence  upon  earth,  agitates  the  soul 
very  forcibly.  The  fatality  of  the  ancients  is  the  sport  of  des- 
tiny ;  but  fatality,  in  the  Christian  doctrine,  is  a  moral  truth  un- 
der a  terrifying  form.  When  man  does  not  yield  to  remorse,  the 
very  agitation  which  that  remorse  makes  him  experience,  drives 
him  headlong  to  the  commission  of  new  crimes ;  conscience,  re- 
pulsed, changes  itself  into  a  phantom  that  disturbs  the  reason. 

1  "  Of  his  Attila  (1808),  his  Vier-und-zicanzigstt  Februar  (1809),  his  Oune- 
gunde  (1814),  and  various  other  pieces  written  in  his  wanderings,  we  have  not 
room  to  speak.  It  is  the  less  necessary,  as  the  Attila  and  Twenty-fourth  of 
February,  by  much  the  best  of  these,  have  already  been  forcibly,  and,  on  the 
whole,  fairly  characterized  by  Madame  de  Stael." — (Carl.  Ens.,  p.  52.) — Ed. 


4:08  MADAME    DE    STAEI/S    GERMANY. 

The  wife  of  this  guilty  peasant  is  haunted  by  the  remem- 
brance of  a  ballad  containing  the  recital  of  a  parricide ;  and 
alone,  in  her  sleep,  she  cannot  help  muttering  it  in  an  under 
voice,  like  those  confused  and  involuntary  fancies,  of  which 
the  dismal  recurrence  seems  an  inward  presentiment  of  fate. 

The  description  of  the  Alps,  and  of  their  vast  solitude,  is 
extremely  beautiful ;  the  abode  of  the  culprit,  the  hovel  in 
•which  the  scene  passes,  is  far  from  any  other  habitation  ;  no 
church  bell  is  heard  there,  and  the  hour  is  announced  only 
by  a  rustic  clock,  the  last  piece  of  furniture  that  poverty  has 
not  yet  resolved  to  part  with :  the  monotonous  noise  of  this 
clock,  in  the  deep  recesses  of  mountains  where  the  sounds  of 
human  existence  never  reach,  produces  a  strange  shuddering. 
We  ask,  what  has  time  to  do  in  a  place  like  this ;  to  what 
purpose  the  division  of  hours  that  no  interest  varies  ?  And 
when  that  dreadful  hour  of  crime  is  heard  to  strike,  it  recalls 
to  us  the  fine  idea  of  the  missionary  who  imagined  that  in 
hell  the  damned  spirits  are  incessantly  asking, — "What's 
o'clock  ?"  and  that  they  are  answered, — "  Eternity." 

Werner  has  been  reproached  for  admitting  into  his  trage- 
dies situations  that  are  better  adapted  for  the  beauties  of 
lyrical  poetry  than  for  the  development  of  theatrical  passions. 
He  may  be  accused  of  a  contrary  fault  in  the  Twenty-fourth 
of  February.  The  subject  of  this  piece,  the  manners  it  repre- 
sents, bear  too  strong  a  resemblance  to  truth,  and  to  truth  of 
a  description  too  atrocious  to  be  admitted  into  the  circle  of 
the  fine  arts.  The  fine  arts  are  placed  between  heaven  and 
earth,  and  the  genius  of  Werner  sometimes  rises  above,  some- 
times sinks  beneath,  this  native  region  of  fiction. 


or  VOL.  i. 


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OCT  1  fr  1934 


'•'  "III  HIM  mil  Mm  IIJJI  J|| 

A     000117197 


